


The Image of the Lover

by idlestories



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Portrait of a Lady on Fire Fusion, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aristocrat Arthur Pendragon, Artist Merlin (Merlin), Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Character Death, Sex but not enough to make the whole fic explicit, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27065656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlestories/pseuds/idlestories
Summary: Cornwall coast, late eighteenth century.Artist Merlin Emrys is summoned to Pendragon House to paint a portrait of the owner’s son. But Arthur, about to be married off against his will, refuses to pose for it, and so Merlin is instructed to paint him in secret. Over the course of a week, he must spend time with Arthur and observe him closely enough to paint from memory. And he starts to have the oddest dreams...What does it mean, to be seen?Inspired by/a loose fusion with the film Portrait of a Lady on Fire, [2019, dir. Céline Sciamma]
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 132
Kudos: 172





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is inspired by Portrait of a Lady on Fire, and borrows the initial idea and then like a handful of scenes which I will indicate and link to in the end notes when they happen. It is not a copy of the film and diverges significantly throughout, but especially towards the end. The trailer for the real thing is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-fQPTwma9o&ab_channel=NEON) if anyone is interested. 
> 
> Title taken from the line 'Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed' in Richard Siken's poem ['Litany in which certain things are crossed out'](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48158/litany-in-which-certain-things-are-crossed-out). Relatedly, I will be including poems and quotes and stuff for each chapter in the end notes, so look out for those if you want.
> 
> Enjoy! Comments always appreciated <3

Merlin was dreaming about dragons again, a faint crease between his eyebrows as the stagecoach trundled through the Cornish countryside. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but after walking all morning to get to where the last coach was supposed to have left him, the relative comfort of the seat and the rhythmic beat of the horses’ hooves proved too soothing to resist. His hand loosened a fraction on his case of paints.

The back wheel of the coach hit a pothole and his head banged painfully against the window. His eyes snapped open. The driver cursed colourfully, and so did Merlin as the giant box with his canvas in it made a break for freedom from the opposite bench. The paints at his left hand crashed to the floor and he reached out desperately for the canvas box, a second too late.

As the coach righted itself and continued its gentle motion, the box stopped where it was falling and hovered, perfectly still, an inch from the floor of the cab. Merlin stared at it for a second, still disoriented from being woken up by a blow to the head, then cursed again and slid his fingers under the bottom edge. Gently, but with its still-considerable weight, it stopped defying natural law and landed on his hand. He risked a glance ahead, grateful to see the driver paying more attention to the road than any strangeness in his passenger.

One crisis averted, he heaved the canvas back onto the seat and sat back, flexing his fingers and scowling at the tubes of paint and sticks of charcoal rolling around the floor. Wincing at the crick in his neck, he bent to gather them up. He shoved them haphazardly into the wooden case and looked mournfully at his previously clean hands, now once again covered in black dust. He wiped them on his trousers, succeeding only in spreading the mess around. His head throbbed and he reached to prod at it, remembering only at the last second that the last thing he needed was dirt on his face, too.

The case clicked shut and he placed it beside him, running a quick eye over the rest of his less-fragile belongings before turning to look out the window. For all the time and effort to get there, he found himself thinking rather sourly that Cornwall, so far, looked much like the rest of the journey: fields and more fields. He sat back a few inches, bored.

Slowly, the stagecoach rounded a bend and began to make its descent down a gentle hill. As the view from his window changed, Merlin sat up straight, mesmerised. After the crest of the hill, the horizon began to slide, slipping gradually downwards until it revealed the sea. He resisted the urge to reach for paper and sketch the way it spread out, impossibly blue and glittering in the afternoon sun.

He didn’t fall asleep again for the final hour of the journey, eyes fixed hungrily on the line between sky and sea and still, deep in his heart, doubtful that anything could be that big. Hundreds of miles, no other bank in sight. It grew clearer and clearer as they passed through a tiny village and continued towards it. The short, ephemeral white lines of tiny waves could be seen breaking in the water, now, and sea birds circled over it in great lazy arcs. He grinned.

The most water he’d seen growing up had been a scummy pond in his mother’s village, or the trickle of a sad little stream in summertime. Even the Severn, whose banks he had walked to Gaius’s when he left home, wasn’t quite the same, never quite wide enough to lose sight of the other bank, and certainly never so empty of ships.

He tried to fix it in his mind, the way the sea looked from the window: the subtly different shades of blue where the light and clouds fought for purchase, the lines of foam as rebellious waves broke before reaching the shore, the sharp, clean lines of the birds and the jagged coastline that was coming into view further on.

He forced himself to blink. He had at least a week, after all. There would be time to draw it; surely this Pendragon didn’t expect him to paint all day. He tore his gaze from the water and squinted ahead past the driver, craning his neck. With some surprise, he realised he could see the house already. Pendragon (he assumed) House stood just a little further down the hill, severe and alone. The artist in Merlin thought critically that it didn’t fit the landscape at all, all straight lines and a carefully maintained but bare driveway, as though the wild coastal wind had blown away anything superfluous.

As they rounded the final curve of the driveway, Merlin gazed up at the windows of the house, raising an eyebrow as a face quickly disappeared from one. His host? Gravel crunched as the coach slowed to a stop and the driver dismounted, opening the door for Merlin with barely a second glance before turning to tend to his horses. The sea air rushed in and Merlin grinned again, irrationally itching for a way to capture this, too, to preserve the wild, fresh smell and bring it back to the city when he left.

He hopped out of the carriage, picking his way through his belongings for space to step, and carefully extracted his supplies onto the ground. When everything was out, he hauled his cases one by one up the handful of steps to the huge front door. He called a word of thanks to the driver, who waved a hand distractedly, busy checking his horses’ hooves and stroking their necks.

A wave of nerves suddenly came over him, and he fiddled uselessly with his clothes and hair as best he could without ruining them. Wiping his hands a final time, he reached for the giant lion’s head door knocker. He was a little surprised to see the wood of the door distressed and peeling, and the brass tarnished in places, but he supposed the sea air might be bad for such things. What did he know? He lifted the knocker and let it fall once, twice. He waited.

The door cracked open and a pretty young woman looked Merlin up and down doubtfully. He cleared his throat and her eyes snapped to his face. She opened the door fully and looked at him expectantly.

“I’m… Merlin? Emrys?”

“…Yes?” she said, frowning.

“The painter? I’m here to do a portrait. I hope. This is Uther Pendragon’s residence, is it not?” he said, heart sinking, but understanding rushed into the girl’s face and she nodded.

“Right! Yes! Of course. Sorry, please come in, Mr Emrys, sir. My lord?”

Merlin pulled a face. “Definitely no lords here. Merlin, please.” She smiled uncertainly at him, and reached to the ground to pick up the bag containing his clothes. He hefted his boxes into his arms and peered around them with some difficulty, belatedly remembering to close the door with his foot and almost overbalancing in the process.

The girl was already halfway up the huge staircase and turned to look at him questioningly as he adjusted his grip, hissing at a splinter. He followed. She led him up the echoing stairwell and along the hallway to a door at the end, which she opened with a large key. She pushed the door open and stepped back, letting him go first.

Merlin turned awkwardly to fit through the door and lurched into the room, letting out a low whistle as his eyes adjusted to the light. He stopped, embarrassed.

“It’s huge,” he said, turning back to face her as he propped his boxes against the wall by the window.

She shrugged. “No one ever uses it.”

Merlin tilted his head back, eyeing the detail in the ceiling plaster and the slightly dusty but still magnificent chandelier. The girl watched him, bemused, then set his bag down carefully and moved to light the fire. She paused, and turned her head to him.

“Oh! I’m Gwen.”

“Merlin,” he said absently, thoroughly distracted by the room.

“I know.”

“Oh. Right. Yes,” he said, turning his attention back to her. “Here, let me help, I have a knack for lighting fires.” She hesitated, then shrugged, stepping away from the fireplace and watching him closely. It was possible he hadn’t thought this through. He thought for a moment, then landed on the portrait on the opposite wall, speaking as he knelt down.

“Who’s that?” he asked, waiting to hear Gwen turn around before willing the fire into lighting. He smiled as the first little flames leapt up obligingly under his hands.

“Oh, I don’t know, some ancestor of Lord Pendragon’s, I’m sure. They’re a very old family,” she added, in the tone of one who had learnt to say just that. “Oh, you got it. You do have a knack, it normally takes me much longer.”

Merlin just smiled. She looked around the room nervously.

“Is that everything, Mr Emrys? I’m supposed to bring you to Lord Pendragon now.”

“Lead the way.”

She led him back out the door, passing him the large, ornate key as they went and keeping up a constant but very vague commentary on the various portraits lining the hall now that Merlin had made the mistake of expressing an interest. He made a few noises of assent here and there, and soon they stopped in front of a closed door.

“He’s expecting you,” she said formally.

“How do I look?” Merlin asked, running a hand over his newly-shaved face. Gaius had told him to clean himself up a bit. She snorted in surprise, but quickly recovered and looked at him appraisingly before nodding.

“Perfectly well, Mr Emrys.”

Merlin laughed. “Merlin, please.”

“Merlin, then,” she said, pleased and shy. “If you come down to the kitchens later I’ll find you something to eat. I expect you’ve been travelling all day.”

“Thank you, Gwen, I will.” She gave him a sweet smile, then knocked the door.

“Enter,” came a voice from within. Merlin made a face and tugged nervously at his collar. Gwen pushed open the door and stepped in, eyes to the floor.

“Mr Emrys for you, my lord. The artist,” she said. Uther Pendragon turned from where he was standing by the fire. He smiled, and it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Thank you, Guinevere. You may go. Mr Emrys,” he greeted smoothly. Gwen left with a nervous look towards Merlin, who smiled at Uther despite his nerves.

“Merlin, please, my lord.” Uther frowned slightly but held out a hand. Merlin shook it.

“Please, Mr Emrys, have a seat,” he said, gesturing to two expensive looking chairs by the fire. Merlin sat gingerly, afraid to mess it up, and Uther mirrored him, sitting back and gazing at Merlin.

“I assume you’re aware I require a portrait.”

“Yes, sir. Of you? My uncle wasn’t quite clear…” Merlin trailed off.

“Of my son,” Uther corrected. “He’s getting married soon, and I wish to send a portrait off to his new family.”

Merlin nodded, then remembered himself. “Congratulations, sir.”

Uther nodded, then pursed his lips slightly. “However,” Merlin felt a tingle of foreboding. “I must make an…unconventional request of you, Mr Emrys.”

“Sir?”

“My son refuses to sit for a portrait. He is…angry with me. His sister – Well, no matter. As a result, he believes you are here merely as a companion, a distant family friend who may accompany him on walks and rides and such activities.”

Merlin was confused. Uther continued haltingly, clearly unused to sharing family business even in such vague terms.

“Will you be able to paint without a formal posing? By merely observing him over the week?”

Merlin stared at him. Surely he didn’t mean – Uther’s gaze was steady. He did mean. Merlin fought down his reflexive disapproval, reminding himself that he needed this money for school, and that a recommendation from the shark sitting across from him could go a long way.

He cleared his throat. “I don’t see why not. I mean, I believe so, sir.”

“Then it’s settled. You will accompany my son wherever he wishes to go and have a portrait ready by the end of the week, without his knowledge.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Guinevere has already shown you your room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. You may ask her for anything you need. I will speak to you again in a few days.” Uther’s gaze flickered down to Merlin’s fidgeting hands and he forced himself to be still, trying to cover the charcoal on them. Uther frowned and unsubtly examined his own hands for dirt. Merlin smiled weakly.

“You may go, Mr Emrys.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” Merlin couldn’t for the life of him remember if he was supposed to bow or curtsey or address Uther by some other title, and ended up in an awkward half bend, stepping carefully backwards under his steely gaze and definitely not fleeing out the door.

He felt a moment of sympathy for the man’s son, growing up with a father like that. On the other hand, there was every chance he had turned out just the same. Merlin sighed. It was going to be a long week.

* * *

By the time Merlin found his room again, having unsuccessfully tried a number of identical locked doors, darkness had fallen outside. He unpacked properly by the light of the fire and set up his art supplies behind a curtain, fixing his paints and brushes back into some semblance of order and standing the canvas on the easel. He wondered what his subject looked like, mind already trying to imagine a figure on the blank space.

His stomach growled in the middle of his reverie and he decided glumly that it was time to search for the kitchens. Maybe Gwen could tell him more about the son. He cast a glance around the room, by far the biggest he had ever stayed in, bigger even than his mother’s house all those years ago. He threw another log onto the fire and stepped out into the dark hallway.

After some wandering and the discovery of some fortunately lit candles, Merlin found his way to the serving kitchen and Gwen, who looked so surprised to see him that he suspected she had forgotten he was there.

“Merlin! Would you like some wine?”

“Absolutely, thank you.” She set down the plate she was washing and stood, reaching into one of the corners and producing a dusty bottle.

“Not the private Pendragon collection, of course,” she said.

“I’m sure we’ll make do.” She set it on the table with two glasses and moved behind Merlin again, rummaging in the cupboards for some bread. He poured them both a glass and she returned with a loaf, pleasantly surprised to see her wine waiting for her.

“I didn’t cook anything, I’m afraid. Lord Pendragon didn’t want to dine tonight,” she said apologetically.

“No, no, this is great,” Merlin assured her, falling gratefully on the bread and butter. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

“How was your meeting?” she said suddenly, meeting his eyes curiously then looking away. Merlin made a face and took a sip of wine as she tried to fight a smile. “That good?” He sighed.

“It was fine, I suppose. But he does have a way of making you feel rather like an insect on the sole of his shoe.” Gwen snorted.

“You’re to paint Master Pendragon, aren’t you?”

“The son? Yes, I don’t even know his name.”

“Arthur.”

“Arthur,” Merlin said thoughtfully, disappointed that the name didn’t help him picture the man at all. “Well, I hope he’s not like his father. That man is terrifying.”

Gwen opened her mouth in defence of her employer, then closed it. She looked carefully at Merlin, and relaxed slightly. “Just a little,” she agreed. “You get used to it. And,” she hastened to add, “He’s been a good employer to me.” Merlin found this hard to believe.

“How long have you worked for them?”

“Three years. I’m almost the only staff left now.”

“What? Isn’t that…lonely?”

Gwen looked surprised. “Sometimes, I suppose, but I get quarters to myself and I send most of my money to my father. The work could be worse too, you’re the first visitor to stay in months.” She looked like she wanted to say something else, but stopped. Merlin was intrigued.

“Why? Surely a family and a house like this should be hosting and entertaining all the time,” he said.

Gwen hesitated. “I think they used to, when Lady Pendragon was still alive. She passed some dozen years back and Uth- Lord Pendragon cut a great many people off, if you believe the gossip.”

“And do you?” Merlin asked, amused.

“Oh yes,” Gwen grinned for a moment, then turned serious again. “Apparently he stopped attending parties and functions within the year, and let his business fall to the side. He had…disagreements with most of their friends, my father said.”

“Your father?”

She nodded. “He lives half a day’s ride from here, in another small village. He’s a smith,” she said proudly. “Best one in the county. It’s how I got the job – my father did some metalwork for Uther and offered me for the job when he saw the state the house was in.” At Merlin’s questioning eyebrow, she added, “He fired almost all the staff, eventually. You should’ve seen the place when I arrived,” she said, before looking guilty for a moment.

Merlin topped up her glass and leaned in. “Is Arthur his only child? He mentioned a sister, but I wasn’t sure –”

“Morgana. His daughter. I wouldn’t bring her up, if I were you,” she said sadly.

“Did she pass, too?” Merlin said, alarmed and feeling unexpected sympathy bubble up within him.

“No, no, she – um, she ran away. Just this summer.”

“Ran away,” Merlin repeated.

Gwen bit her lip. “Look, I really shouldn’t –”

“Isn’t it better I know what to avoid, so I don’t put my foot in it?” Merlin tried.

She deflated. “Oh, alright. Stop topping up my glass. Morgana, she was – she was betrothed. Promised. She took the news rather badly, refused to marry the man Uther chose for her. So she just – she left. On her own.”

Gwen’s lower lip wobbled alarmingly, and Merlin was surprised to see her eyes looking wet. He patted her hand cautiously.

“You knew her well?”

“Yes, I – we were very close. As close as one can be with one’s employer, of course.” Again, Merlin had some doubts. He said nothing. There was a moment of silence.

“Uther was furious. He even went out to look for her, but she was gone. She didn’t tell anyone where she was going. The family of the fiancé weren’t happy, either.”

A piece fell into place in Merlin’s mind. “Is that why Arthur’s getting married? Into that same family.”

Gwen pursed her lips. “Yes, they worked something out between them the week after Morgana left. Uther could use their status, and he wants to send Arthur to Paris, where his mother was from, at least to begin with. I expect they’ll return here, in time.” Merlin nodded, fervently glad Gaius had, thus far, never tried to marry him off. For a number of reasons.

“And Arthur is…unhappy about this?” he prompted.

Gwen was slightly flushed by this stage. “That’s certainly one way to put it. Uther pulled him out of university, you see. Went to Cambridge himself and brought him home. Hasn't let him out much since.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow. Cambridge was awfully far. Arthur had clearly wanted some distance, some freedom, and for Uther to have turned up at his door with a life sentence to someone he didn’t even know… Merlin couldn’t imagine he would be pleased, either.

“I have to paint him without him knowing, you know,” he said.

Gwen winced. “I did wonder. He was _so_ _rude_ to the last one.”

“There was a last one?”

She nodded. “They got halfway through and Arthur he – he threw a fit is what he did. Refused to pose.”

“Wonderful.”

“I’m sure you can do it, though! You must be good or Uther wouldn’t have hired you.”

Merlin decided to omit the tenuous web of connections that had actually got him hired, held up by Gaius’s recommendation and a schoolboy friendship.

“I’m alright,” he said glumly. “Probably better when I can see the person while I’m painting, though.” Gwen topped up his wine, and he sighed. “So, what’s the village like?”

* * *

Merlin stumbled back to his room, slightly unsteady legs finding the way much quicker than his sober self had managed. He fumbled with the key, muttering to himself as he entered the room. He was dismayed to see the fire dying, and threw a few more logs on, which threatened to smother it entirely. With a frustrated noise and a guilty glance behind him, he gave the fire a hard look and it burst into suspicious flames immediately.

He blinked at the force of it, and thought with some concern that he should probably tone down his…whatever it was. Three times in one day was asking for trouble, and after spending most of his life with either his mother or Gaius, he really didn’t need to be reminded of the importance of keeping some secrets.

Gaius, for his part, was just old enough to remember when accusations of witchcraft were still taken seriously, but had refused to say any more about it, preferring to cuff Merlin around the head when he was being particularly incautious. Which, in his defence, wasn’t always on purpose. Things just sort of happened around Merlin, like inanimate objects moving on their own, or fires lighting as soon as he thought about it.

The heat from the now-crackling fire slowly radiated out into the room and Merlin clumsily began to strip, discarding his travelling clothes in a heap on a chair before reluctantly straightening them, his mother’s voice in his head. He wandered over to one of the windows and squinted out into the dark. It was pitch black, and he was disappointed not to be able to see the sea.

Feeling along the bottom of the window, he heaved it open after a few moments’ fight and leaned out, grinning as the smell of the salt on the air hit him again. A cold autumn wind whirled around him, and he shivered, suddenly feeling very far from home. Instinctively he looked up, and was briefly comforted to see the same stars.

He drew himself back in through the window and shut it, relishing in the warmth of the room all over again. He lit a candle, wandered over to the bed and sat, leaning down to his bag and fumbling for the stack of loose paper he knew was in there.

Shuffling the pages, he felt a mixture of pride and regret as he looked over the sketches and watercolours of dragons and knights, wyverns and griffins. A small, prideful part of him knew they were good, but the rest of him knew, more realistically, that they were no way to make a living. Children’s fantasies, nothing more.

Merlin wasn’t sure what it said about him that he still dreamed of magic and dragons more often than not, but he assumed it wasn’t anything favourable. His art teachers hadn’t had anything good to say about the few real paintings he had done, anyway. Portraits, country landscapes, bloody ships, that’s all anyone wanted to pay for, not flights of fancy and nonsense.

He absent-mindedly added a few spikes to the dragon he had dreamt of this morning, mind already wandering to the possibility of magical sea creatures. Weren’t there tales of beautiful women who were half fish, luring sailors to their deaths? He sketched a few fishtails half-heartedly, then yawned and let the pile fall to the floor, leaning back on the bed with an arm over his face.

He turned and blew the candle out with lips still numb from the wine and closed his eyes, the bed seeming to move beneath him in time with the distant sound of the waves.

* * *

_In his dream, Merlin walked slowly down an unfamiliar corridor, all stone and wall hangings and ornate carvings. Candles almost burnt down to the holder flickered faintly, and the walls seemed less than solid in the eerie light. His feet made no sound, and led him without conscious thought._

_He turned a corner and suddenly found himself outside, grass damp and dewy on his bare feet. He walked purposefully towards the forest, now, climbing up and up until the ground flattened almost imperceptibly._

_Thoughts dull and slow, he turned around to face the direction he had come from and was dimly surprised to see the silhouette of an enormous castle rising up above the treetops. The moon and stars lit the sky, the forest a mass of black against the dark blue._

_The castle rose like a mountain, a few guard fires burning on the walls and a handful of windows still lit. A flag fluttered in the breeze at the top, but he couldn’t make out an emblem. Slowly and unconsciously, he reached for it as if to bring it closer, and took a step forward. His foot passed through thin air, and he tumbled forward, his mouth open to yell._

* * *

Merlin woke, his head aching. He scrunched his eyes against the light streaming through the windows where he had forgotten to pull the curtains. He lay still for a moment, allowing his heart to settle slowly back into rhythm from its racing beat, as though he had dreamt of falling.

He cracked an eye and winced at the brightness. It was late enough in the morning, then. He rose reluctantly, washed and dressed mechanically and stuffed some blank paper into the inside of his jacket. He generally did have paper on him, and felt better for it now, until he remembered that he was about to have to meet his subject and observe him with some measure of subtlety.

His subject being the son of Uther Pendragon, who was, apparently, more than willing to disagree with his father. Merlin couldn’t tell whether that boded well or not. He sat a moment on the edge of the bed. There was a knock at the door.

“Yes?” he called.

“Um – can I come in?” Gwen.

“Oh. Sorry, come in, Gwen.” He stood up as she cautiously opened the door. She looked tired. He smiled at her and she gave a small one back, fiddling with her apron.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning.”

“Look, Merlin –” she started. “Last night, I really shouldn’t have told you all of that, Lord Pendragon he’s – well, he’s a very private man, he –”

Merlin stopped her. “Gwen. I appreciate all you told me, and I can keep a secret. You have nothing to worry about.” She relaxed. “So what can I do for you?”

She looked at him. “He’s waiting for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think - I swear more stuff will be happening after this, I just had to set the scene okay
> 
> Poems, quotes, songs etc for this chapter: (quantity of these will increase throughout the fic)  
> \- re-linking [the poem I took the work title from](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48158/litany-in-which-certain-things-are-crossed-out)  
> \- "In heaps of sleepy down / and falls of water, hills of foam / there is a new sound, strange to my hearing / instead of 'I', a regal 'we'" from the Epilogue of ['Poem of the Mountain'](https://ruverses.com/marina-tsvetaeva/poem-of-the-mountain/) by Marina Tsvetaeva.  
> \- "I like the sea: we understand each other. It is always yearning, sighing for something it cannot have, and so am I." (Greta Garbo)  
> \- "Tales and dreams are the shadow truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes, and forgot." (Neil Gaiman, The Sandman)  
>   
> Next time: a first meeting, the word 'prat', sneaky drawing, more Gwen, and another dream.
> 
> my [tumblr](https://idlestories.tumblr.com/) is here


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Things should not be quite as slow now they’re actually meeting lol (but it's still a slow-ish burn, so)  
> Enjoy and let me know what you think!

Merlin nervously patted the pockets of his jacket again and took a final look at the room before nodding and following Gwen into the hall, his mouth oddly dry. She didn’t lead him the whole way, instead stopping at the top of the stairs and pointing down to the front door to where a figure stood, back to Merlin. She mouthed ‘good luck’ at Merlin before calling down,

“Mr Emrys is ready, sir.”

Merlin widened his eyes at her in panic but she just smiled and left. He made his way down the stairs carefully. When he reached the bottom he stumbled slightly, distracted as he was by trying to get a good look at Arthur, who was still standing motionless by the door.

He cleared his throat to speak but Arthur simply sighed and opened the door, stepping out and beginning to walk without looking around. He marched off in the direction of the path down to the shore. Merlin stared after him.

He pulled the door shut behind them, wincing as he slammed it accidentally, and hurried after Arthur, who was already beyond the grass and onto the steep, rocky path. Merlin was so focused on glaring at the back of Arthur’s head (he hadn’t expected him to be blond, he noted) that he tripped more than once on loose stones. Arthur never missed a step, striding downwards with the ease of a man walking down a city street.

The sea got louder as they descended but Merlin’s growing irritation was rapidly dwarfing any excitement he might have felt and he spent most of the walk fuming at Arthur inside his head. He was, in fact, so busy fuming that he failed to notice when the object of his ire stopped abruptly where the path ended, and almost crashed into him.

He skidded to a stop and, still believing Arthur was too far ahead to hear his grumblings, muttered, “Prat.”

Arthur instantly turned around to face him and Merlin’s mental tirade about private schools and rich people and basic manners was cut short as his brain froze. He blinked. Distantly, he realised that since his arrival, he had been picturing a younger, shorter Uther, which, happily, was far from the truth.

Arthur barely resembled Uther at all, the withering gaze he currently wore the only obvious gift from his father. His eyes were blue, but a different shade, deeper and more complex than Uther’s icy stare. His features were sharp, with a defined jaw and strong nose interrupted only by an oddly soft mouth. Merlin was aware he was staring. He shook himself, and looked him in the eye. Arthur was looking at him incredulously.

“What?” he said defensively, remembering the moment it left his mouth _why_ Arthur was looking at him like that and pressing his lips together.

“You can’t address me like that,” Arthur said, as though speaking to an insolent child. His accent was every bit as posh as Uther’s and Merlin resisted the urge to further beat his own consonants into clipped submission, instead staring back at him coolly.

“Can’t I?”

Arthur just glared. Merlin willed down the colour threatening to rise in his cheeks. Eventually, Arthur rolled his eyes, looked him up and down and curled his lip. He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but shook his head and turned away, stepping onto the sand and ignoring Merlin once more. Merlin cast his eyes heavenward and followed.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Merlin picking his way over driftwood and looking longingly at the choppy waves. He stopped suddenly and sighed. Was it his imagination or did Arthur slow down, too?

“Look,” he called after him. “I’m sorry, alright? Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. Can we start over? I’m Merlin.”

Arthur paused properly, then, scuffing moodily at the sand with his shoe. He bent to pick up a fist-sized rock. “What sort of name is Merlin, anyway?” he said moodily over his shoulder, condescension thick in his voice.

Without warning, he drew his arm back and launched the rock in a perfect arc towards the shallows, where it landed with a satisfying sound.

“What age are you, anyway?” Merlin said before he could stop himself. He couldn’t believe him. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, willing his voice back to politeness. “Oh, never mind. Please do excuse me for trying to be nice.”

“Is that what you’d say you were doing?” Arthur shot back, one eyebrow raised. Merlin eyed the angle of the curve of it, but too soon, Arthur turned to stare at the water again, the breeze blowing his hair back and making him look younger. Merlin settled for studying his profile instead. Arthur bent and picked up a few more pebbles in his left hand, straightening and starting to throw them so fast that Merlin couldn’t help but flinch. He pressed his lips together.

“Right. Well. My apologies, _my lord_ ,” he bit out.

“Not a lord,” Arthur said, sounding almost amused. “My God, where _did_ they find you?” He continued to throw the stones, each going further than the last, the sound no longer audible over the waves. The irritation had bled from his voice but remained clear in the tight line of his shoulders.

Merlin made a face Arthur couldn’t possibly have seen, even if he did turn sharply in time for Merlin to give him an innocent look. He decided the only course of action was the one he resorted to in all difficult situations: he would just have to keep talking.

“Thank you for asking, Arthur,” – Arthur shot him a look at the familiarity, but was ignored completely – “I come from a small village named Ealdor, originally, but I’ve been staying with my uncle in Bristol for the last few years. I never knew him as a child, actually, it was just me and my mother, you see -” Merlin continued in this fashion for close to ten minutes, prattling about Ealdor and his mother and Will almost without drawing breath.

He was careful to omit the details of what had been a somewhat impoverished upbringing in favour of what he hoped were universal tales of small boys breaking things and getting into trouble. He tried not to look at Arthur’s face too much as they walked, studying it only occasionally along with the lines of his shoulders and arms. Risking a glance to his right, he was surprised to see Arthur paying attention, something like sadness in his eyes before he looked away.

Merlin trailed off slightly, thrown off whatever irrelevant topic he had made it onto, and hesitated, thinking frantically for something else to say.

“You know, I’d never seen the sea before I arrived here yesterday,” he said conversationally. Arthur looked at him strangely. He felt oddly exposed. “What?” he said warily. “Philistine? Backwater peasant? Go on, say it.”

Arthur looked surprised. “No, not –” he started, then paused. “It’s just – I grew up here. I can’t imagine life without it.” He looked away, embarrassed.

“Can you swim, then?”

Arthur frowned at him, condescension creeping back into his voice. “Of course I can swim, can’t everyone?” Merlin raised his eyebrows and he looked a little ashamed. “Well, I mean.”

Merlin took pity on him. “To be fair, I don’t know if I can or not. Not sure I’d like to find out on a day like today,” he added, looking distrustfully at the gathering clouds. An idea occurred to him and he brightened a little. “I could dip my feet, though,” he said, already kneeling down.

“Right now?” Arthur said, exasperated.

“Yep,” Merlin said cheerfully, tying his shoes together and slinging them around his neck, pulling off his socks and biting the inside of his cheeks at the look on Arthur’s face. “Care to join me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself,” Merlin said. He stuffed his socks into his shoes and kicked at the damp sand, delighted. The waves receded and he stepped into their range, turning to face Arthur, grinning and meeting his eyes just before the waves returned and the water covered his feet. He yelped and jumped at the cold. The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirked up.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never felt cold water before.”

“I didn’t think it would be that cold, it’s shallow!” Merlin protested, hissing.

“It’s not the same water, is it, genius – it changes every time.”

“That doesn’t sound true at all,” Merlin said, then shrugged, wiggling his slightly-numb toes. He bent over to pick up a half-covered shell and cursed when he accidentally started to lower his shoes into the water. He retrieved the shell and held it up proudly to Arthur, who looked amused for a moment but quickly replaced it with his apparently-default bored aristocrat expression. He shook his head.

“If you’re going to be like this every time I think I’d rather be locked up in the house again,” he said. Merlin turned from where he had been rinsing the shell so fast he hurt his neck.

“Locked up?” he repeated, but Arthur had already turned, ignoring him again. Merlin made a frustrated noise and picked his way out of the water, stepping without fail on every sharp stone in his path. He looked up to see Arthur contemplating a steep climb that formed a shortcut back to the level of the house and groaned, hopping as he pulled socks back onto wet, sandy feet. Arthur climbed up the rocks with infuriating ease and walked out of Merlin’s line of sight.

Merlin frowned and instinctively started to follow, still in his socks, but stopped to pull his shoes on and untie the knot between them. He picked his way up the rocks with considerably less grace and considerably more fear, pulling himself over the edge and flopping on the sparse grass. He looked around and spotted Arthur sitting further along, legs dangling, and decided just to watch him for a bit. Arthur absent-mindedly plucked at the grass in the sand.

After a few minutes, without turning around, he called out, “Do stop staring at me, Merlin.” Merlin looked away as he saw him stand up and brush himself off, walking back to where he was sitting. He drew level with him and stood, waiting. Merlin looked up. “Well?” Arthur said impatiently. “Are you finished being a child for the day?”

Merlin gave him a dirty look and waved him off. “I’ll catch up.” Arthur shrugged and headed off in the direction of the house.

Merlin turned after a moment to make sure he was going and fumbled in his pockets for pencil and paper, sketching Arthur’s profile as best he could while it was still in his mind. He moved the pencil in quick, short strokes, trying to capture the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw. He tried a few times from different angles, even taking a chance and trying for Arthur’s eyes, head-on, but nothing looked quite right. He could picture it all fine, he’d always had an eye for detail, but it just wasn’t coming.

Technically speaking, there was nothing wrong with the sketches, but something still nagged at Merlin and told him they could be anyone. There was nothing Arthur about them. He frowned and folded his paper away again, standing and hurrying after the distant figure ahead.

To his surprise, Arthur was waiting for him at the door of the house, and watched with thinly-veiled disgust as Merlin balanced against the door to pull off his shoes and shake the sand out of them. He said nothing, but when Merlin was done the door was held open for him and Arthur closed it gently behind them.

The echoing hall seemed deathly silent without the sound of the wind and waves. Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly and Merlin turned from where he had been ready to ascend the stairs.

“Thank you,” Arthur said stiffly, then looked away and promptly overtook Merlin, taking the stairs two at a time and disappearing onto the landing.

Merlin’s mouth was open. He shut it. Whatever unfortunate high society _parisienne_ was about to marry Arthur, he hoped she wasn’t waiting for scintillating conversation, for she would be sorely disappointed.

Wearily, he shook his head and reminded himself he was there to do a job. He had better spend the rest of the afternoon trying to get Arthur’s face right, or maybe sketching out some poses, getting a feel for the proportions.

Sending up a silent prayer not to run into Uther in his socks, Merlin quickly climbed the stairs and returned to his room, where he peeled said socks off with a grimace and sat down with his paper. After an hour of almost-perfect eyes and brows and lips, he sighed and turned the page over to try figures in different poses. The proportions were evading him and he made a mental note to watch Arthur’s movements more closely tomorrow.

He ended up more frustrated than ever, mostly because he couldn’t explain what it was that was wrong with his efforts. There was something different about Arthur, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, and all his work kept turning out was generic aristocrats with nothing behind the eyes.

He smirked for a moment, distracted by the idea of presenting the Pendragons with a portrait of Arthur as he had been today, scowling and throwing things beyond the edge of the canvas. Idly he sketched a cartoonish Arthur in a school uniform, arms crossed and pouting. He snorted to himself and shoved it to the bottom of the pile.

How was he ever going to get this right without being able to stare at Arthur or ask him to hold still for hours on end?

He sank back into the chair. An idea formed in his mind. A family as old and as (formerly) well off as the Pendragons must have had portraits done before, perhaps when Arthur’s mother was alive. He had paid little to no attention when Gwen had pointed out a few of the paintings the previous day, but maybe there was one somewhere of Arthur as a child, or the whole family. Maybe even one featuring the mysterious Morgana.

Curiosity piqued, he searched his bag for clean socks and pulled his shoes back on. He set the pile of sketches down carelessly behind the partition and left, locking the door.

* * *

He certainly had been right that the Pendragons had a certain appreciation for art, but he was disappointed with the number of portraits. After the one in his room, there were only a handful, and none that he would confidently place in this century, never mind of the family as they were now.

The trend of bland pictures of ships had evidently not escaped this corner of the country and Merlin looked at them with some distaste as he trailed a hand along the wall. His eyes drifted across the hall and he realised just in time that one of the doors he was approaching was already ajar. He stopped and tilted his head, pleased to realise it was a reading room of sorts, walls lined with maps and leather bound tomes.

Just as he was about to push the door open and have a closer look, he heard a sound and paused. Arthur walked into view and sat down sideways on the sofa, shoes off and collar undone. He ran a hand through his hair and turned his attention to whatever he was holding, presumably a book.

Merlin assumed he was reading, but suddenly picked out the familiar sound of the scratch of a pencil. Was he drawing? He listened closely. It was too constant, interspersed with regular gaps. Was he writing a letter? Arthur shifted and drew his legs up onto the sofa, resting what Merlin could now see was a book on his knees as he wrote. A journal, then?

Merlin was burning with curiosity, so much so that it took a moment to realise the opportunity which had presented itself. Arthur, sitting perfectly still, unaware that Merlin was watching him. He felt quickly in his pockets, furious that he hadn’t thought to bring his usual spare sheet of paper with him. He looked between Arthur and the corridor and decided to go back.

Returning with a page and a book to balance it on, he leaned against the wall across from the slightly-open door and held the page to his knee. He set to drawing, his hand loosening and his mind going comfortingly quiet as his eyes flickered between Arthur and the paper. Only when his neck began to ache did he stop and blink, looking critically at the page.

There was no background, nothing but what he could see of Arthur past the back of the sofa, but it was definitely better. He decided, uncharacteristically, not to push his luck and get caught, and returned to his room, where he set the new image carefully on the bed and stood for a moment looking at the empty canvas.

While this morning the white expanse had simply stared back, now he could see the beginnings of the pose he would paint Arthur in, imagine the base colours for his clothes and skin tone. He thought he might even be able to block out some lines later. This might not be as bad as he had initially thought.

He moved back to the chair, more relaxed than he’d been all day. On the back of one of the discarded profile studies, his hand started to move again. Over the course of the day, the castle from his dreams had come back to him in bits and pieces and he outlined it now, adding rough brickwork and windows to the imposing structure as he went. Pausing, he added a flag, but couldn’t remember what had been on it.

Restless again, he set it down and stretched, deciding to go and look for some more of Gwen’s bread.

* * *

Finishing the last slice he’d liberated from the kitchen, hand cupped under his chin for crumbs, Merlin was walking the halls again. Half hoping to find Gwen, he passed an open door without really noticing, doubling back only when his body caught up to his brain and realised she was in there. He finished his bread and knocked the door lightly.

Gwen jumped where she was forcefully polishing some very ugly silver, her hair escaping into her face. She turned and straightened, relaxing when she saw it was Merlin. She smiled and brushed her hair away from her forehead. Merlin waved.

“Do you want some help?”

“What? No, you’re a guest, you can’t –”

Merlin moved into the room and pulled out one of the heavy, ornate dining chairs and sat down, ignoring her disapproving twitch.

“I’m bored Gwen, I’m so bored,” he said. “I’ve been drawing Arthur’s stupid face all afternoon and I need to do something.” He looked at her sadly. She looked nervously to the door and Merlin stood up easily and shut it. He turned to her expectantly.

“Oh, fine. Do you even know how to polish?” she said.

“I’ve worked for rich people before, of course I know how to polish,” he said, already reaching for a spare cloth and rolling up his sleeve with his other hand. Gwen looked like she had several questions about this, but he gestured for the polish and she shrugged and handed it to him.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, relaxing into the rhythm of the polishing the way Merlin did when he was absorbed in a painting. Soon, though, he could feel his curiosity and his limit for silence bubbling up inside him.

“So,” he started and Gwen sighed. “Has Arthur always been so disagreeable?”

“Merlin!” she hissed. “Anyone could hear you.”

“Oh, he’s in the library,” Merlin said carelessly. “So, has he?”

“He’s not,” she tried weakly. Merlin gave her a look. “Well, no, he is, but he can be very kind too.”

“Oh?”

She said nothing, concentrating on her already-gleaming candlestick.

“Gwen, come on, what’s he like when he’s not completely ignoring you?”

“Did he really?”

“Except for the parts where he was insulting me.”

“Oh, Merlin, I really wouldn’t know, he’s been away almost all the time I’ve been here,” she said wearily.

“Gwen, I’m supposed to paint this man in a flattering light, you have to give me something.”

“Oh, for – Well, when Morgana left,” – she dropped her voice to a whisper – “Uther…said some things, alright? Implied it was my fault, or that I knew about it, or helped her. Arthur…stood up for me, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Keep polishing. Give him time,” she added quietly. “Neither of them had many friends growing up, I don’t think.”

“Can’t imagine why,” he muttered. “I don’t _have_ time, I have to paint him from memory when the only way I can look at him is as he’s marching away from me. Or, apparently, if I lurk in the corridor while he writes in the library.”

“Tell me you didn’t.”

“Of course I did, I’m an artist who isn’t allowed to tell his subject he’s painting him, how else am I supposed to get a good look? He didn’t see me, I told you he was writing something.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t exactly want to disturb him and ask what it was, did I?”

“No, it’s not – Morgana said, once – and do not repeat this, Merlin, I swear – she said he wanted to be a writer, when they were younger.”

Merlin made a face. “Arthur Pendragon, poet? He doesn’t seem the type.”

“I’m sure that was Uther’s reaction, too. He wanted him to go into politics, I believe.”

“And Morgana? What did she want to do? Apart from cause a scandal?”

Gwen narrowed her eyes at him, but smiled sadly. “She wanted to revive Uther’s business interests, actually. She had a head for figures. She was even in correspondence with some important businessmen,” she added proudly. “Under Arthur’s name, of course.”

Merlin raised his eyebrows. “So they’re not alike, then?”

“I don’t know, Merlin. I suppose in some ways they are. Both…headstrong.”

“That’s certainly one word for it.”

Gwen swatted him with her cloth, then sighed and looked out at the slowly darkening sky.

“Do you want some tea?”

“Guinevere, I thought you’d never ask.”

“Oh, stop it.”

* * *

They shared a strong tea as the rain began in earnest. Merlin decided not to push Gwen for any more details, feeling as he did slightly guilty that he’d managed to so thoroughly endanger her job in the space of two days.

Instead, he nodded and agreed in the right places as she took her turn, keeping the gossip to the safer territory of people he didn’t know. He contributed a few horror stories about Gaius’s patients to even the balance and laughed at her expressions.

She asked a few too-casual questions about his background and while he saw no need to skim over the poverty like he had with Arthur, he kept the timeline vague and she didn’t seem to notice. Eventually, she yawned.

“I have to start checking the fires for the night,” she said regretfully. Merlin rose and stretched, risking a quick squeeze of her hand and receiving a pleased smile in return. He wished her goodnight and headed back to his room.

As the door closed behind him and silence fell, Merlin was embarrassed at how quickly Arthur’s face floated to the top of his mind. He undressed slowly and added a few logs to the fire, forcing himself to let them catch naturally even as he grew impatient.

He lit the candle by the bed and tried to read the book he had used as a desk earlier that afternoon, but quickly found himself reading the same paragraph over and over again, his vision blurring. After an hour or so of trying, he closed it with a sigh. Early as it was, he drifted off to the distant sound of the sea and the rain against the windows, Arthur’s face still in his head.

* * *

_His hands fastened the final piece of armour like they’d done it a thousand times, fingers grazing the chainmail for the briefest of seconds before the knight turned around. It was Arthur, more relaxed than Merlin had seen him yet, grinning and pushing his hair back._

_He blinked, and the scene changed. Knight-Arthur was in motion now on the field, and swung his sword in a perfect arc, dodging a fellow knight’s blow with a dancer’s grace. He came up laughing and turned to face Merlin, hair sticking to his forehead and eyes bright. He called something Merlin couldn’t hear and before he could respond the field fell away, too._

_Trees and forest bled in around the edges as Arthur fought a man in black, for real this time. A red cloak moved behind him as his feet slid in the mud under the relentless attack. Merlin couldn’t look away as he blocked blow after blow, the other knights faceless and slow in the background. His teeth gritted in exertion, Arthur spotted an opening at last and slid his sword through a gap in his enemy’s armour, a flash of regret on his face the only chink in his own. The other man slid to the ground. Arthur, panting hard, looked around the forest desperately, searching for something. His eyes met Merlin’s and he visibly relaxed, opening his mouth to speak._

_Another of the enemy appeared behind him, sword raised. Merlin opened his mouth to warn Arthur, raising an arm that felt as though it were moving through water. No sound left his mouth as the sword flew closer and closer, until the scene dropped away._

* * *

Merlin woke gasping, reaching for the candle before he was even fully aware what he was doing, lighting it with barely a thought and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Heart pounding, he stumbled over to his supplies. The room was silent but for the sound of Merlin’s breath as he drew feverishly in the low light.

In just a few minutes, a rough half-body portrait of Arthur-the-Knight fell to the floor, frozen in laughter. Merlin used his case as a desk from his position on the floor, the image of Arthur’s face suddenly so strong that he had to draw it while he had it. More slowly this time, maybe half an hour, another, closer image joined the first. Arthur’s face in battle, desperate and blood-streaked, hair sweaty and eyes filled with fear.

Merlin dropped his pencil, hand shaking, and took a breath. He looked at the two pictures as though they had been drawn by someone else. The dream-images were already fading from his mind, the pencil and paper insistently bringing them back. He ran a hand over his face and reached to gather them up, pausing at the corner of one of his dragon pictures sticking out from the pile.

A slight smile came to his face and he flipped it over and started drawing again, relaxed now. Slowly, a new dragon’s head filled the right hand side of the page, soon joined by a miniature Arthur-the-Knight brandishing a sword.

Merlin grinned tiredly, the panic of waking long since gone, already gentler in his memory. He shook out his aching, smudged hand. Wherever these images had come from, he couldn’t deny that they looked like Arthur at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well they might not have enjoyed it, but they’ve met each other now lmao. Stay with me, they'll get there.
> 
> Okay honestly I have a word document of tender quotes for subsequent chapters, but they don’t like each other yet so what can we do. For now, all I got is:  
> \- “Something has happened in the paint tonight and it is worth keeping. It’s nothing like I thought it would be and closer to what I meant.” (Richard Siken, [ Dots Everywhere ](https://howapoemmoves.wordpress.com/2017/08/31/richard-siken-dots-everywhere/) )
> 
> Next time: a horse ride, extremely varying enthusiasm towards said horse ride, first attempts at conversation, Hands™, and another dream 👑
> 
> Let me know what you thought!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have this earlier in the day because I'm impatient. Today we have: one of them being a bitch and one being long-suffering. Who is who, you ask? It changes from minute to minute.
> 
> Creds to my irl friend for anything even vaguely realistic relating to horse riding. I know nothing; I literally regretted deciding to have them do that as soon as I did it. We do what we can. Enjoy!

Merlin was awake early the next morning, tired but finally ready to paint. He stood at the easel, his back to the windows and facing the door. He sighed. The first lines on a fresh canvas were always nerve-wracking. He squinted, trying to fix the image in his mind’s eye on the canvas, then moved quickly and confidently, placing the first outline stroke.

He blocked out the major proportions: the space for Arthur’s head, his shoulders, his lower body. Arms and hands went in as rough shapes to be refined. Satisfied, he stood back.

The next hour or two were spent adding detail that would be hidden by the first layers of paint but which was still essential to the process. He began laying down the base colour for what would become Arthur’s jacket. While he would’ve preferred to see him in his formalwear first – for the painting, of course, his mind warned – he had a good sense for how clothing would fall on Arthur’s frame.

Deep in concentration, adding almost imperceptible tones of light and dark, he wasn’t expecting to be interrupted by a knock on the door as midday approached. He paused, concentration broken, and looked down at himself in alarm. Quickly he reached behind his back and undid the apron ties, checking his hands for paint. They were unusually clean.

He ducked behind the partition he’d set up, making sure the easel was hidden from view. Peeling off his shirt, he almost forgot to answer the knock.

“Come in,” he called belatedly. The door opened cautiously.

“Merlin?” Gwen’s voice floated in.

“Here, just changing shirts,” he said cheerfully.

“Oh! Should I – I can go –”

“Nonsense, I’m almost done.” He poked his head out and grinned at her as she reflexively shut her eyes. “Gwen, I promise I’m decent.” He stepped out, adjusting his collar.

Her eyes still primly shut, she spoke in his general direction. “Arthur is looking for you. You’re to join him again.”

Merlin felt an irrational prickle of irritation that Arthur couldn’t just tell him himself, but he supposed it just wasn’t how things were done. He did want to go out, anyway, to observe Arthur some more. He fiddled with a cuff.

“Gwen,” he said, amused. She cracked an eye and ran it over his ensemble, frowning a little. “Is it another walk with His Highness?”

She gave him a mildly disapproving look. “Not today. You’re going riding.”

Merlin paused in the middle of putting on his jacket. “Please tell me you mean in a coach.”

She smirked. “Horses, of course.” Merlin closed his eyes.

“Gwen. I can’t ride a horse.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know how!”

“Arthur can teach you,” she suggested lightly. Too lightly.

“Gwen!”

“Oh, do hurry up Merlin. And pull your sleeves down, there’s paint on your wrist.” He fixed it automatically and looked at her with pleading eyes. She was still smirking, but reached into her apron and produced a slice of bread and cheese.

Taking it gratefully, Merlin used his other hand to pat his jacket pockets for paper before gloomily realising that he wasn’t going to have much opportunity to draw on horseback. Sadly, he suspected he was going to be too busy trying to stay on the thing. As he chewed, a new concern presented itself.

“Wait, am I supposed to wear something different?”

“…Yes.” He made a noise of despair.

“But you don’t have anything, so no matter. It’s fine. Probably,” she said with a concerned look at his shoes. “Look, he’s waiting downstairs. You better go. I’ll see you later,” she added, already leaving.

Merlin stood, one sleeve now longer than the other, holding half of the slice of bread and looking deeply worried. He let out a gust of air and left, hurrying down the stairs to the hall.

Arthur was waiting for him again, this time leaning against the door. He watched Merlin descend the stairs with a bored look. He took in his slight lopsidedness and the trail of crumbs gradually forming behind him with obvious disdain, but said nothing. Merlin reached the bottom and grinned weakly at him.

“Shall we?” Arthur said. Merlin nodded, mouth full.

Arthur opened the door and set out in a different direction to the previous day at the same furious pace. After a few yards, he seemed to make a conscious effort to slow down, and soon they were almost side by side. Merlin brushed some crumbs off his front.

“I heard you talking to Gwen,” Arthur said out of nowhere. Merlin was so surprised to hear him start a conversation that the potential for disaster almost didn’t register. Then it did.

“What?” he said intelligently.

“You said you’d never ridden before.” Merlin relaxed, then tensed, then dismissed the next potential eavesdropping disaster by reasoning that, in fairness, he probably had got a bit high-pitched when Gwen had dropped the riding part of the day on him.

“I said I didn’t know how to, not that I hadn’t,” he said darkly. “So?”

“So you need to do what I tell you, which, judging by everything about you, isn’t going to come naturally. I thought I would get it out of the way now,” Arthur said.

Merlin’s face twitched with the effort of restraining himself. “I actually do want to survive the afternoon, for your information, so that won’t be a problem,” he shot back, meeting Arthur’s oddly intense gaze. Arthur shook his head and kept walking.

After around ten minutes filled only with the sound of their breath and the crunch of the path beneath their feet, they came upon a small stables. Arthur waved to an older man who was fixing a fence, and walked in like he owned the place. Which, Merlin admitted to himself, wasn’t the cleverest insult, considering they were on Arthur’s family’s land.

It was quiet inside, and smelled of straw and horses and leather. Merlin was busy looking around distrustfully, kicking half-heartedly at the loose straw on the ground, when Arthur spoke again.

“I thought – I thought you were from the country,” he said suddenly.

Merlin perked up, attention caught. He raised his eyebrows. “So you were listening yesterday.”

“It was the first thing you said – after calling me a prat, of course – I stopped listening after that, don’t worry.”

“Of course.” Arthur gave him a look and he relented. “I am,” he said. “But I’ve been living in the city for almost ten years, now, one way or another. Besides, where I’m from, it’s more sheep country than anything.” Arthur wrinkled his nose but didn’t respond. So much for conversation.

They walked further into the stables until they reached the final two stalls on the right, a horse in each. Arthur immediately made for the grey one nearest him and started stroking its face, whispering nonsense to it as he opened the door and began to check it over. Merlin thought he caught an apology for being away and fought a smile. He cleared his throat.

“Shall I leave you two alone?” The side of Arthur’s face that Merlin could see coloured, but he ignored him. He emerged from the stall and lifted down saddles and reins and other accoutrements Merlin didn’t know the names of from the opposite wall.

“This is Neptune,” he said, indicating the grey horse he was fitting out as if Merlin had never spoken. “And that’s Jupiter,” he added, pointing this time to the brown horse in the second stall. “We’re going to take them out, and we’re going to return them in one piece, isn’t that right?” He addressed this last to Neptune, who pushed his nose into Arthur’s hand happily. Arthur smiled, then straightened and turned to Merlin.

“Well? Open the door, then.” Merlin looked at the horse and at the door to the stall between them and thought he was quite alright where he was, actually. It must’ve showed on his face, as Arthur rolled his eyes and moved to do it himself, approaching the horse with the same gentleness and preparing it with the ease of an expert.

He ignored Merlin again while he did it, which Merlin found a much more normal arrangement than the prospect of a world in which Arthur Pendragon cooed at animals. His hands moved quickly and surely over the straps and buckles, finishing with the reins, which he suddenly held out to Merlin. Merlin just continued to look at him with low-level panic until Arthur sighed and carefully led both horses outside onto the grass.

He looked expectantly at Merlin. “Well? Surely even you can figure out the mechanics of getting on. One foot here, one foot here,” he said, gesturing impatiently at the stirrups. “Facing that way,” he added, with a smirk and a gesture at the horse’s head.

Merlin set his jaw and approached his horse in a manner very much resembling a man walking to the gallows. He cautiously laid a hand on its mane and it twitched. So did he. He grit his teeth and turned around in time to see Arthur mount his own horse in one fluid motion. Obviously.

Merlin’s childhood competitive streak reared its head. He awkwardly got a foot in the nearest stirrup and tested it nervously before heaving himself ungracefully up and over, landing a little hard in the saddle. He took a few deep breaths.

“Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move,” he chanted under his breath, eyes closed. He opened them cautiously and the horse immediately shifted again, causing him to clutch at the reins and make it worse.

Arthur was watching him with a mixture of interest and derision. Merlin didn’t notice, trying as he was to stay as still as possible. He felt strongly that looking at the horizon was a matter of tempting fate, and closing his eyes again just asking for trouble. Instead, he focused on Arthur’s hands, the reins loosely looped around them.

He was forced to look up when his focus point moved suddenly, as Arthur somehow encouraged his horse to pull up beside Merlin and stand calmly. He pointed to a small hillock in the distance and Merlin followed his hand with his eyes.

“I’ll meet you over there, alright?” Arthur said calmly, already backing up to move. Merlin felt himself pale.

“Arthur. Arthur what do I do?”

“Relax,” Arthur suggested, lips twitching. “They can tell if you’re anxious. And try not to squeeze too hard,” he called behind him, starting to move off.

Merlin mouthed ‘relax’ to himself and watched Arthur go with a sort of detached resignation. His horse snorted impatiently, startling him yet again. Arthur had already gone far enough to speed up, changing his posture as he moved further away.

Merlin swallowed. Fine. Relax. He could do that. Talking to the horse. He could definitely do that. He forced his hands to relax on the reins and started a steady stream of mindless chatter mostly focused on making extravagant bargains with the horse not to throw him off.

He squeezed his legs ever so slightly and they started to move. His nails bit into his palms and his spine tightened at the motion, feeling the horse’s powerful muscles beneath him. He prayed the thing had the wit to follow Arthur, who might as well have been a speck in the distance at this point.

* * *

By the time Merlin reached the agreed point, Arthur had clearly gotten bored and gone off ahead, giving his horse a workout. Merlin watched him with grudging admiration as he began to circle back, encouraging Neptune to jump over the imaginary obstacle of the overgrown path.

He itched to draw Arthur like this, now, images of him in full armour on a horse in colours rising in his mind. In front of him, horse and rider moved as one animal, each responding to the other’s cues without a word.

Arthur slowed to a trot as he approached Merlin, breathing a little fast and looking younger and happier. He grinned at Merlin for a second, open and honest. He caught himself a moment later, but Merlin grinned back, thinking with only a mild sinking feeling that he was going to be thinking about that slightly crooked smile for days.

Arthur’s horse stood calm and still, while Merlin’s shifted unhappily every few seconds as he tried to find a better balance. If Merlin didn’t personally know better, he would have suspected witchcraft of some sort. He tried to control his face but gave up and cursed, shooting Arthur a dark look.

“Never again, Pendragon,” he said. A flicker of something unidentifiable crossed Arthur’s face at that, but he quickly smoothed it over.

“You’re a natural.”

“Humanity should have left horses alone. What’s wrong with walking? Gets you there, every time.”

Arthur just smirked again and looked Merlin up and down before turning too-casually back in the direction of the house and stables. He met Merlin’s eyes, a flicker of mischief suddenly visible in them. Merlin was immediately suspicious, and his suspicions were confirmed as Arthur took a breath.

“Race you,” he said, and took off without another word while Merlin gaped. He made a rude gesture at his quickly receding back and muttered mutinously to himself. He could have sworn he heard Arthur’s laugh, carried by the wind, but then he was gone.

Merlin sighed unhappily and looked down at his own horse. “Sorry,” he muttered, and set about turning around to make their way back. The horse resisted his pleas every step of the way, moving in fits and starts until Merlin was ready to jump off and sit down for a while.

He breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the stables, an eternity later. Once he got it to stop, he jumped off awkwardly, sending a spike of pain up his ankle. He shook it out crossly and glared at the horse, grateful both to be on solid ground and that Arthur hadn’t seen.

He led his horse back into its stall and fumbled through undoing the various straps, tensing every time it moved. Arthur was in the next stall, talking animatedly to Neptune, falling silent when Merlin’s stall door banged shut behind him. Merlin peeked over at him and saw the tips of his ears were pink. He tactfully did not comment.

Leaving the stall without a backward glance, Merlin leaned against the post of Arthur’s and watched him as he began the processes of checking and brushing, mildly surprised to see him doing it himself.

“Don’t you have people for this kind of thing?”

“I like it,” Arthur said tightly. Merlin hummed and went back to his watching.

He kept one hand on Neptune’s neck as he worked, fingers occasionally tapping out a rhythm as the other hand brushed methodically. After a few minutes he moved on to his mane and tail, then stepped back, satisfied. Merlin cleared his throat and Arthur turned to look at him suspiciously. Merlin pointed innocently to Jupiter’s stall.

“Since you’re so keen,” he said. Arthur gave him a flat look but moved to the next stall without comment, greeting Jupiter with the same care and attention, murmuring things Merlin wasn’t supposed to hear as he stroked her face. Merlin followed and was just in time to catch an apology and what he thought was a ‘she’s not here’, but pretended not to be listening.

Arthur set down his brushes and moved to the back of the stall, preparing to check the hooves for stones and dirt. Merlin stayed where he was for a moment, then pushed himself off the doorpost and into the stall with Arthur, who looked up, eyebrows raised.

“Show me,” he said quietly, not even sure why he was asking. Arthur looked confused.

“What?”

“Show me how,” he repeated, pointing at the horse without getting any closer.

“Whatever for?”

“Does it matter?” Merlin said, feeling the growing spot of fondness he’d been nursing all afternoon rapidly melting. Arthur searched Merlin’s eyes for a second.

“I suppose not. I’ve just never seen someone so blatantly unhappy on horseback.”

Merlin bit back a retort and waited. Arthur narrowed his eyes slightly, but turned his attention back to Jupiter. He lifted each of her hooves carefully, wordlessly indicating to Merlin the stones he was picking out. Merlin kept a safe distance.

Arthur’s hands were strong and sure, with long, fine fingers and a single ring on the first. Jupiter made a small sound again and Merlin twitched. Arthur bent his head to hide a smile and let her last leg down, picking up his brush again.

He brushed without a word, catching Merlin’s attention here and there with a murmur as he changed direction or location. He rested a hand on Jupiter’s neck, just as he had done with Neptune, and the rhythmic sound of the brush was the only one apart from the horses’ breathing. Arthur bent slightly, stretching to reach the horse’s hindquarters, and the sleeve of his left arm rode up further.

Merlin’s eye caught on the fine golden hair on Arthur’s forearm, softly lit by sunlight slanting through the door. Something pulled tight in his chest, but an old memory of being caught looking sounded like a bell in his head, and he looked away and swallowed, ashamed. Arthur turned back at the movement.

“You’re not watching,” he said lightly, holding out his arms and transferring the brush to his other hand.

Merlin’s body, a few steps ahead of his brain, interpreted the gesture as an offer and he automatically reached out to Arthur’s hand. Their fingers brushed against each other and a little shock ran up Merlin’s hand. He yanked his arm back as though Arthur were on fire, clenching his fist.

Arthur looked momentarily hurt, his face falling. Merlin felt inexplicably terrible, and scrambled for something to say.

“Like you said, it’s not like I’m going to need it,” he said weakly. Arthur just nodded, his face closed off again. Merlin could’ve kicked himself, or possibly irritated Jupiter into doing it for him. Arthur finished brushing out the tail in silence.

Merlin tried again. “They’re nice horses, you know, as horses go,” he said, grimacing internally. Why did he have to go and react like that?

Arthur gave a slight shrug. “Jupiter was my sister’s,” he said quietly. Merlin became aware he had to tread carefully.

“Where is she?”

“She left.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said, finding he meant it.

Arthur’s mouth tightened. “Me too.” He paused. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he added stiffly. Merlin nodded.

Arthur returned the tools to their place on the wall and washed his hands as best he could. He gave the horses a final pat and made sure they had enough feed and water, giving them a final wistful glace as Merlin followed him out of the stables.

They set off for the house, once again almost in step but now with at least a yard between them. Merlin didn’t know what to say, afraid he had broken something new and fragile without meaning to. They walked in silence.

The brief golden light from earlier had passed, a few weak rays breaking through the cloud far in the distance. Their hair fluttered as the wind began to pick up, and the smell of rain crept into the clean scent of the sea. The clouds turned a deep and threatening slate colour as they neared the house. The first raindrops began to fall.

* * *

After they parted at the house as usual, Merlin found himself back on the bed, drawing Arthur’s hands over and over. Holding reins loosely, splayed against the horse’s necks, extending out of the page. He brushed his fingers over the lines with regret, then shook himself and started sketching them in the kind of pose he hoped to paint them in, losing himself in the details.

* * *

That night, Merlin dreamt.

* * *

_He knew he had to find something, but he didn’t know what. He wandered the halls of Pendragon House, trying locked door after locked door and growing more and more distressed until finally one opened. He pushed it open to reveal an impossibly sized throne room, complete with stained glass windows and an empty throne at its head._

_The light fell softly on the opulent colours, evoking a church so strongly that Merlin fought the urge to cross himself. Instead, he found himself looking around impatiently for what he needed. His gaze fell on a raised cushion in front of the throne. There was a crown on it, and the relief was so intense his breath caught in his throat._

_He made his way to the pedestal and picked it up carefully, turning it over in his hands and running his fingertips along the jewels and markings. Suddenly it blurred in his hands and his fingers closed on thin air._

_The scene flickered and changed, and he found himself standing in a crowd. He looked around frantically, freezing when he realised Arthur was on the wide raised platform in front of the throne. A faceless man in ceremonial dress held the crown in two hands, and lifted it high before placing it reverently on Arthur’s head in a gesture imbued with centuries of symbolism._

_Arthur looked impossibly young and old all at once, his eyes red and his jaw set. Merlin stared at him with the crown on and was suddenly filled with such a fierce pride and unfathomable devotion that he thought his chest might burst._

_Arthur squared his shoulders under the weight of the crown as the room swelled with the energy that precedes all explosions of sound and scanned the crowd. His eyes met Merlin’s and Merlin gasped._

* * *

He woke up disoriented, tear tracks drying on his face. He swiped an uncoordinated hand across his face and stumbled up to light the candle. It was still night, only a few hours from when he had gone to bed, judging by the logs in the fire.

He took a few deep, steadying breaths, his mind slowly starting to work again. He looked warily at his bed, but decided against going to sleep again just yet. He pulled a dressing gown on and left the room, heading for the kitchens to swipe some tea.

Gwen was sitting at the big table when he wandered in, her own eyes tired and sad as she fiddled with what looked like a letter. She looked up as he entered, and bit her lip. She folded the letter carefully and smoothed it down before setting it carefully in the fire. The edges curled as it caught, and Merlin glimpsed the word ‘London’ in the top corner before the paper succumbed.

Her shoulders slumped. Merlin watched her carefully. She sighed, and they both spoke at once.

“Is everything alright?” They smiled weakly at each other and Merlin gestured for Gwen to go first.

“You look terrible,” she said bluntly, scrutinising him.

Merlin shook his head. “I had a dream. I keep having dreams, actually,” he corrected, more quietly.

Gwen sat up straighter, eyes suddenly sharp. “What kind of dreams?”

“Dreams about things that never happened. But they feel so real.”

“What happens in them?”

Merlin thought about it, and settled on vague. “It’s like it’s the past,” – Gwen relaxed, but he didn’t notice – “All castles, and medieval knights. Arthur is there,” he added.

“Not me?” Gwen asked teasingly.

“Not yet, your majesty.” He smiled at her, then looked at her seriously. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said. “Really, don’t worry.” They sat in silence, then she perked up. “How was the horse ride?” she asked, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“You know exactly how it was.”

She laughed softly. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“Well, I didn’t fall off. Although I’m sure it would’ve made Arthur happier if I had,” he said moodily. “I think I…offended him, somehow, on top of it all.”

“How?”

Merlin sighed. “It’s not important. Maybe he didn’t even notice.” He didn’t believe himself, but nor was there any way to explain to either of them that admiring Arthur and then accidentally touching his hand had unfortunately coincided with an unpleasant little memory of being fifteen and getting a bloody nose for not much more than that.

He shook his head, clearing the images. “Can you ride?”

Gwen let him off with his non-explanation, and waved a hand in a ‘kind-of’ gesture. “I would rather make a shoe for one than ride it, but we have an… understanding,” she said grimly.

Merlin laughed, and they chatted about nothing for a few minutes. As the noise in his head quieted and he started again to think of bed with more wistfulness than dread, he was filled with a sudden affection for Gwen and took her hand again. She looked up, surprised.

“Thank you, Gwen.”

“What for?” she said, mystified. Merlin shrugged and stood. She smiled up at him uncertainly.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Merlin.”

He didn’t dream again that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the almost hand touch. So close and yet so far.
> 
> Quotes for this chapter:  
> \- "The flesh of the desired body is not a dreamt-of destination, but an immediate point of departure." (John Berger, _And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos_ )  
> \- "Without touch, God is a monologue." (Andre Dubus, ‘On Charon’s Wharf’, _Broken Vessels: Essays_ )  
> \- "Where all is obscure and unrealised the best similitude is a dream." (E.M Forster, _Maurice_ )
> 
> Next time: 5k of: drawing, the offering up of small pieces of history, a picnic!, longing™️, Arthur sulking and wanting to run away from his daddy issues, and the tender patching up of a grazed knee. Way more interaction, in short. pls come back and read it next week.
> 
> Comments are love.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two days happening in this chapter, one better than the other.
> 
> [In the real world: congrats to america and what a WILD couple of days to be extremely online, huh?]

The next morning, Merlin woke suddenly and completely, the image of Arthur as king clear in his mind and the memory of devotion echoing uncomfortably in his chest.

As was fast becoming routine, he reached down to the floor beside the bed for the sheaf of Arthur sketches and flicked through them, turning them over until he found a blank side. He slid the still-unread book under the pile and began to draw, the shape of a strong jaw and broad shoulders coming to life in a matter of minutes.

He hesitated, holding the tip of his pencil at the head of the portrait. Drawing the crown, like the armour and dragons, took the work an irrevocable step away from the respectable realm of portrait practise. The pencil hovered, moving back and forth a few times before he committed and brought it to the page, sweeping in bread strokes. He added the details of the crown dispassionately and flitted down to add depth to the hair.

Aside from the crown, the drawing now resembled the real portrait, almost complete except for the eyes, which remained marked out only by vague, light lines. Merlin frowned, unsure where to go next, then it clicked and he was off. Arthur’s eyes gradually took on shape and realism, individual lashes framing the look of fear and determination that had almost knocked the air out of dream-Merlin.

Encouraged, he kept adding strokes of detail here and there, embellishing Arthur’s collar with a design that, if he had been asked, he would have said he didn’t remember. By the time he was finished, the crown was the dullest thing on the page and Merlin, embarrassed, almost felt as though he ought to look away from the sheer vulnerability of the gaze he’d given Arthur.

He set the drawing aside with all the others and rubbed at the pencil smudge on the side of his hand. He looked between the easel and the page thoughtfully, and shook his head slightly. The eyes of the smaller sketch were good, right somehow, but they would look absurd on the painting.

There was a knock at the door and he called for Gwen to come in. She was holding a tray of tea, and at his surprised look, she grinned, embarrassed, and closed the door.

“Don’t get used to this kind of service, Mr Emrys, but you looked awfully pathetic last night,” she said by way of explanation. Merlin smiled and pulled his knees up, clearing space for her on the end of the bed. She sat, tucking one leg up beneath her skirt.

They sipped their tea companionably. Gwen finished her cup, looked out the window to judge the light, and gestured impatiently at Merlin to drink up. She set both cups back on the tray and rose, giving Merlin a quick once over before making her way to the door.

“Arthur is expecting you at noon,” she said. Merlin’s head jerked up, and she let him suffer for a few seconds before taking pity and adding, “Just a walk today, don’t worry.”

Merlin tilted his head back in relief and she laughed, opening the door and adjusting her grip on the tray. Merlin sat up straight, the mention of Arthur having called up the uncomfortably guilty feeling from the previous day in the stables and whatever he’d done wrong. He supposed, unhappily, that Arthur just didn’t like to be touched.

“Gwen, wait.” She turned around and raised her eyebrows. “Maybe you could help me with something?”

* * *

The bag bounced against Merlin’s hip as he walked quickly down the hall. He spotted Arthur from the top of the stairs and grinned at him. Arthur looked at him doubtfully, gaze sharpening as it landed on the bag.

“What’s that?” he said suspiciously.

“Patience is a virtue,” Merlin replied solemnly, reaching around him to the door.

Arthur sighed and stepped aside, but immediately overtook Merlin outside and headed off in the direction of the trees. Merlin waited for him to notice he wasn’t following and, sure enough, he stopped, annoyed, and turned around.

“What is it this time?”

“We’re going to the beach,” Merlin announced.

“Are we now?” Arthur muttered, already starting to walk back towards him. “By all means, lead on.”

As they followed the path down to the shore, Arthur seemed to relax, letting Merlin walk ahead as the silence shifted from uncomfortable to companionable.

They reached the beach and Merlin stopped for a moment to savour it, still a little giddy at it all even after several days. He felt Arthur’s eyes on him and swallowed. He spoke without turning around.

“Does it ever get old? All this, the –”

“No,” Arthur said quietly. “It doesn’t.”

They picked their way over some rocks in relative silence, Merlin bending down to poke at pieces of seaweed and examine the rock pools left by the tide. Once, he yelled for Arthur, who startled and hurried over to be thoroughly unimpressed by a starfish, rolling his eyes but failing to completely hide a smile.

“I used to find jellyfish here, when I was a child,” he offered suddenly. “My mother always had to stop me from touching them. I wanted to put them back,” he said, embarrassed.

“She was French, your mother? Something your father said when I arrived,” Merlin added at Arthur’s quizzical look. He nodded.

“She never went back, after they got married. I think she wanted to.” They were quiet. “She – she loved it here,” he said haltingly. “She taught me to swim here, on this beach.”

“I bet you were a horror to teach,” Merlin said, smiling.

“Unlike you, I’m sure.”

Merlin laughed. “Did she – when did she pass?” he said carefully, bending down to examine some seaweed and deliberately not looking at Arthur. He didn’t reply immediately and Merlin was seized with the certainty he’d misread things and messed up, again, somehow.

But Arthur spoke, choosing his words carefully. “When I was eleven.” Merlin made a sympathetic sound, still unsure if he could turn around and still preserve the moment. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Arthur looking out at the water, but he didn’t look especially upset. He decided to even the balance.

“I was thirteen.”

Arthur looked at him in surprise. “Then - your uncle?”

“I moved in with him not long after, yes,” Merlin said vaguely.

They made their way back onto the sand. He picked up some more shells, running his fingers over the whorls on the outside and the smooth pearly interiors with wonder. Arthur had found a long, thin piece of wood somewhere and dragged it alongside him, leaving a jagged line in the sand between their footprints.

Merlin paused to poke at some limpets on a rock, and turned around to ask a question and saw Arthur poking at the sand with the stick. When he saw Merlin looking he quickly scuffed at the patch of sand with his foot.

“Arthur, were you drawing in the sand?” Merlin asked, delighted.

“No.”

“You were, go on, show me.” Arthur sighed and moved to the side, revealing the remains of a childish little sun, complete with rays. Merlin grinned and tried not to find it so completely endearing.

“Give me that,” he ordered, taking the stick from a bemused Arthur and looking at the newly cleared sand. He fixed the sun, then scored some lines below it until a rough beach scene took shape, two tiny figures standing on the shore. He held the stick out to Arthur again. “Your turn.”

Arthur hesitated, then shrugged and drew a large, badly proportioned fish beside it. Merlin laughed and stole the stick back, moving to a bigger patch of sand. He carefully made some curved lines here and there, standing back to get a better look before going back in to add detail. Arthur waited, and eventually Merlin stepped back to reveal a half-decent horse. Arthur made an impressed noise.

“You draw?” he said, walking around the edges of the picture. “That’s cheating, you know.”

Merlin mentally cursed his instinct to show off, as the potential stupidity of drawing for Arthur occurred to him for the first time. “A little,” he hedged.

“You’re good.”

Merlin settled on part of the truth. “My uncle’s a physician. I've been apprenticing for him.” True, once. “I copied some of the drawings from his anatomical texts when I was bored.” Also true. He switched tracks, hoping that would be enough to satisfy Arthur. “I could draw you a skeleton,” he said, grinning.

“Could you?” Arthur sounded genuinely interested. Merlin was a bit flustered.

“Well, no, I’d be here all day,” he said reasonably. “Oh! I can do you the bones of the hand, though, look.” He moved along to the next empty space and squatted down. He broke off a piece of the stick and started scoring lines. He told the little part of himself that was asking what he thought he was doing to shut up.

He finished the rough diagram and pointed to the different sections with the big stick a little overenthusiastically, jabbing holes in the ground as he named the bones.

“Distal phalanges, middle phalanges, proximal phalanges, metacarpals, carpals,” he rattled off.

Arthur made a begrudgingly impressed face, studying the design closely. He held up his own hand and looked between the two, fascinated. Merlin was struck by an urge to take it and show him himself, run his own fingers over the delicate bones of Arthur’s wrist and trace the lines on his palm. The feeling was so sudden and strong that he had to look away. He blinked and threw the stick down. He clapped his hands together.

“Right!” he said, pointing at Arthur. “Your unusual patience is about to be rewarded.”

Arthur dragged his gaze away from the sand. “Do tell.”

“Lunch!” Merlin exclaimed. He sat down cross legged where he was standing and opened the bag, lifting out small cloth-wrapped packages and spreading them out. Arthur approached cautiously, looking hopeful. He sat down. “Chicken, bread, cakes,” Merlin said, flapping a hand at the packages as he rummaged in the bag for the piece de resistance.

He produced a bottle of wine with a flourish and Arthur grinned at him appreciatively.

“Go on, then.”

“I’m not serving you, you prat, help yourself,” Merlin said, amused, fishing in the bag again for the cups. He made a triumphant noise and threw one to Arthur, who caught it easily and held a hand out for the bottle, opening it immediately. He poured himself a cup and wedged it upright in the sand. Merlin cleared his throat and looked pointedly at his own cup. Arthur rolled his eyes and obliged.

They ate for a few minutes, watching the waves crash and recede. A few gulls circled overhead.

Arthur took a bite and hummed. “A bit dry, but I suppose it’ll do,” he said, faux disappointed. Merlin threw the cork of the wine bottle at him and laughed, fully aware that even yesterday he might’ve missed the teasing undercurrent to Arthur’s voice. Or perhaps it hadn’t been there, yesterday.

He shifted and knocked over his empty cup, watching with dismay as it rolled away from him. He thought about getting up, then shrugged and reached for the wine anyway. He met Arthur’s eyes as he took a swig. Arthur swallowed, gaze tracking Merlin’s hand around the bottle.

His eyes flickered away from Merlin’s then back, a spark of challenge in them. He drained the rest of his cup and discarded it, gesturing for the bottle. Merlin gave it to him and he drank, too, holding eye contact and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he finished.

Merlin felt his face heat, but the tension dissipated and they continued to pass the bottle back and forth, ending up lying side by side on the sand. Clouds drifted overhead and gathered in the distance, and they watched the sky as the sound of the waves was broken by bursts of meaningless conversation, never looking at each other.

The clouds began to build up, creeping towards the shore as the colour slowly washed from the scene and the sea turned grey. Arthur sighed and Merlin knew what he meant. To go back to the house, now, felt like a betrayal of the day. Merlin sat up, brushing the sand from the back of his head and leaning back on his elbows. Arthur lay still, watching the sky.

“Not yet,” he said quietly. Merlin nodded and sat up, crossing his legs and drawing meaningless patterns in the sand.

Eventually, Arthur sat up with a groan and they quietly and reluctantly packed up the debris from the picnic, carefully taking turns to return things to the bag. A bitter little voice in Merlin’s head wondered what Arthur would do if their hands touched today.

They stood up straight and stretched, brushing off their clothes with varying degrees of success and turning to climb the steep path back to the house. Merlin paused and reached into the bag, unwrapping a final corner of bread and stuffing the cloth back in. Arthur gave him a strange look.

“We might as well leave it for the birds,” he said defensively, setting it carefully on a nearby rock.

Arthur bit back a smile.

“They can hunt, Merlin, I doubt they need our scraps.” Merlin ignored him, checking the bag for a final time before they set off up the path.

Arthur, surprisingly, seemed keen to extend the journey, walking slowly and speaking awkwardly but determinedly as they walked.

“I almost fell off that edge when I was nine,” he said, pointing to the right. “My mother was furious,” he said, smiling. “Not as furious as my father, mind.” The smile dimmed. They walked on.

“Morgana and I used to practise fencing over there,” - he pointed again - “Pretending to be Robin Hood,” he said with a snort. “Both of us.” Merlin resolutely tried not to let his heart melt at the image of tiny, righteously angry Arthur waving around a foil, pretending to be a peasant hero in the middle of his father’s estate.

“Do you miss her?” he asked instead. Arthur looked at him uncertainly. “Your sister,” he clarified.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“What’s she like?”

“She’s…her own,” Arthur said with a wry smile, and left it at that. He seemed to bear her no grudge for leaving and resigning him to his fate. Merlin wasn’t sure he’d be as forgiving.

After a few more steps Merlin stopped and looked at the house, now only a hundred or so yards ahead. He tilted his head thoughtfully. Arthur, who had stopped when he had, looked at him impatiently.

“Merlin?” He didn’t use Merlin’s name all the time, and the sound of it had wormed its way into Merlin’s chest. He tried desperately not to think how many more times he had left to hear it. He turned and fought to keep his face neutral.

“I was thinking,” he started. Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Since we’re on foot today…” he trailed off thoughtfully.

Arthur frowned. “What?”

Merlin dragged it out for another few seconds, subtly adjusting his stance and grip on the bag, then grinned at him.

“Race you.”

He took off, Arthur making an outraged sound as he realised what was happening. He heard him start running and laugh behind him, and Merlin thought he could run a hundred miles just on the sound of it.

He won, but just barely, Arthur easily catching up after the first few yards. He slammed into the wall beside the front door triumphantly, then winced and rubbed his shoulder. They broke into giggles, out of breath and flushed.

Merlin couldn’t help but look at Arthur like this, bright and free. His grin didn’t fade, but there was an oddly shy look in his eyes as Merlin opened the door and they stepped into the quiet, breath returning to normal.

For the first time, they walked up the stairs side by side. The colour in his cheeks starting to fade, Merlin was painfully aware of the inches between them. As Arthur listed ever so slightly towards him with every other step, he could swear he felt the air press at him. They reached the top of the stairs and turned to each other to go their separate ways. Arthur opened his mouth, but was cut off.

“Ah, there he is!” Uther boomed, clapping an alarmed Arthur on the shoulder. “You remember Lord Bayard, of course, Arthur?” Arthur nodded politely and drew himself up to firmly shake the stern-looking man beside Uther’s hand. “And this is Mr Emrys, who’s staying with us this week,” Uther added, waving a hand in Merlin’s direction. “Nephew of a family friend. A physician’s apprentice.”

“My lord,” Merlin greeted, inclining his head. The other man said nothing.

“Come, Arthur, have dinner with us. You could learn a lot from Solomon, here,” Uther said, already steering him away. “Mr Emrys,” he nodded at Merlin, who smiled weakly. Arthur was led away down the corridor, pausing at the door of the dining room to look back at Merlin. Their eyes met, and Uther pulled Arthur through the door. It closed gently and Merlin was alone.

He returned to his room and resigned himself to an hour or two fiddling with the portrait and making minute adjustments here and there. He added the finishing touches to Arthur’s hands, shading the ring on his forefinger.

* * *

When it was fully dark, he put his brush down and left, half-hoping to find Gwen again. The hall was dark and silent and he no longer needed light to guide his way.

Suddenly light spilled from a room on the right hand side as a door was wrenched open and a figure strode out. Arthur. The sound of Uther and Bayard’s laughter followed him out, and it wasn’t warm laughter at all.

Arthur closed the door behind him none too gently and clenched his fist as the darkness settled back around him, the chink of light beneath the door illuminating precisely nothing. Merlin could still hear the murmur of voices from the other side.

Arthur sighed heavily and there was a quiet thunk as he leaned his head back against the wall. Merlin had frozen when the door opened, but he took another step now and the floor creaked. Arthur’s head shot up.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s only me.”

“Oh.”

“Are you – is everything alright?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with you,” Arthur said, aiming for cutting but landing on tired.

Merlin nodded even though it was too dark to see it. He took another few steps and heard Arthur inhale when he passed him. He paused at the end of the corridor.

“See you tomorrow?” he said tentatively. Arthur was so quiet Merlin almost turned around, but resisted.

“Yes,” he said finally. Merlin moved on.

* * *

He slept an uneasy but dreamless sleep. The last few days of a painting were always difficult, spent fruitlessly searching for something he had missed, restless. He woke slowly, grateful to be haunted by nothing but the vague memory of lips on his, which slipped through his fingers like sand as soon as he began to get ready.

He thought about Arthur in the hallway last night, alone in the dark, and decided to go and find him first that morning. Once he had finished getting ready, he worked out where Arthur’s room should be by a combination of logical elimination and guesswork, knocking a few in a row before being rewarded with a muffled acknowledgement.

He pushed the door open carefully and poked his head in, instantly taken aback by the sheer mess of the room. Arthur’s things were everywhere, Arthur himself standing by the window flipping distractedly through a book, his mouth a tight line. He looked up and frowned at Merlin, eyes stormy.

“What are you doing here?”

“Aren’t we going out?” Merlin said, having cleverly deduced Arthur was not in the mood to discuss feelings and opting for his backup excuse.

“Oh,” Arthur said disinterestedly. “I suppose.” He turned back to his book. Merlin tried not to roll his eyes.

“Ten minutes, then?”

Arthur nodded without looking up and Merlin retreated. He made a face at the closed door. He suspected it wasn’t going to be like yesterday at all.

* * *

Arthur surprised him by showing up on time, but kept a much brisker pace as they set off along the cliff path and left a cold silence in the air. He answered Merlin’s few questions in clipped tones, at one point almost spitting the words ‘my father’ before collecting himself and marching on. They walked in one direction for the best part of an hour. Merlin’s feet were starting to hurt. He stopped and Arthur kept going.

“We should go back,” he called after him. Nothing. “Arthur, we’ve come too far, let’s go.” Arthur stopped.

“I’m not going back,” he said.

“What? Come on, let’s turn around.” Arthur shook his head. “Look,” Merlin said, feeling he had already been very patient that morning. “I’m sorry that your father’s… the way he is, but you can’t just keep walking to avoid going back.”

Arthur laughed, short and bitter, and looked at Merlin suddenly, intensely.

“Would you do it?” he demanded, and without asking Merlin knew he meant all of it, the wedding, the move, the life his father wanted for him. He licked his lips, having no idea what the right answer was but quite sure there was a wrong one.

“I don’t have to,” he said finally.

Arthur scoffed. “Yeah,” he said, and kept walking. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked towards the cliff edge. Merlin’s logical mind knew he would stop, or change direction, it really did, but his heart stuttered in his chest.

“You’re too old to run away when you have an argument with your father, Arthur,” he called, starting to follow him. “Arthur, stop!” he tried, desperate now, feet moving but too slowly. Arthur kept walking.

The frustration and irrational fear rose to a boiling point in Merlin and the tight grip he usually kept on his magic loosened a fraction and something escaped. Arthur tripped over thin air and went down hard on his hands and knees.

“Oh, shit,” Merlin said under his breath, jogging over. “Arthur, Arthur are you alright?”

Slowly Arthur turned and sat back, legs bent in front of him. He looked dully at his scraped hands.

“Arthur,” Merlin said sharply, heart thudding. Arthur deflated, shoulders slumping.

“Fine,” he said quietly and tersely. “Let’s go.” He ignored Merlin’s outstretched hand and pushed himself up with a wince, brushing off his trousers.

By the time they made it back to the house, the left knee of Arthur’s trousers was sticky with blood and he held his hands stiffly by his sides. He tried to head for his room but with a frustrated noise Merlin steered him towards the kitchen and pointed to the bench.

“Sit,” he ordered, already heating water and searching for clean cloth. Arthur sat on the table itself, feet on the bench. Merlin sighed and returned, motioning for him to roll up his trouser leg, which he did without comment.

Merlin dipped the cloth in a bowl of warm water and wrung it out before gently pressing it to Arthur’s knee. He didn’t react. Merlin passed the cloth over the cut a few times, ensuring no dirt remained, before handing Arthur another piece of cloth to pat it dry.

“It’s hardly a war wound, Merlin,” he spoke quietly. Merlin startled.

“Shut up,” he said without heat, his hands freezing in their movement for a fraction of a second as he realised what he’d said. He looked at Arthur and was relieved to see a small smile on his face. “Let me see your hands.”

Arthur held out his hands hesitantly, facing up. They were scraped to hell, bits of gravel still embedded in the heel of his palms, but there was hardly any blood.

Merlin held his breath as he took Arthur’s wrist lightly, thumb loose on his pulse. He held his hand over the bowl and squeezed out the cloth, allowing the water to run over the scratches. Arthur hissed and pulled away, but stilled when Merlin tightened his grip. He repeated the action on one hand and then the other. The silence pulled taut between them, the crackle of the fire and the sound of water dripping interrupted only by their breathing, Arthur’s deep and controlled, Merlin’s shallow, afraid to break the spell.

He didn’t look at Arthur as he ghosted his finger over the clean scrapes, picking out a final speck of dirt before wiping them again. He straightened and exhaled, passing Arthur the dry cloth again and twitching his fingers away before they could touch.

Arthur slowly rolled his trouser leg down again, holding the material away from the already closing cut. His breathing hitched.

The door creaked open and Merlin turned around, gratefully expecting Gwen and unpleasantly surprised to see Uther, who looked about as happy to see them. Arthur’s face went blank and he dropped his head, studying his hands.

“Arthur.”

“Father.”

“I thought you were out,” Uther said stiffly. Arthur didn’t bother to reply. “I was looking for Guinevere, but I’ll just –”

“No need,” Arthur said brusquely, hopping down from the table, picking up his jacket and brushing past Uther and out the door without another word.

Merlin stared after him and noticed Uther doing the same before turning back to the kitchen.

“He fell, sir, while we were out. Nothing serious. I just cleaned it for him.”

To Merlin’s surprise, the corner of Uther’s mouth curved up at that and in that split second he saw a hint of the resemblance he’d been missing between father and son. “He was always falling as a child. Refused to let anyone near him,” he said, studying Merlin closely. “Ygraine practically had to hold him down.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, and the barely-there smile faded as quickly as it had come. The brief glimpse of Uther as a father went with it. He turned to leave.

“How is the portrait coming along, Mr Emrys?”

“Almost ready, sir. Tomorrow.”

“Very good.” Uther moved into the threshold, a silhouette against the dim light. He cocked his head slightly. “He likes you, you know.” He left.

What was Merlin supposed to do with _that_?

* * *

He stayed away from the real portrait that night, knowing that even if only he would notice the difference, the memory of Arthur’s anger and hurt would bleed into whatever he tried to do.

He spread his sketches out on the floor and added one of Arthur on the cliff-top, trying to draw it out of his mind onto the scrap of paper, but it became a picture of Arthur-the-knight before Merlin even realised. He found himself idly adding a sword to the sketch’s hand, detailing an inset portion of a different metal without knowing why. ( _Gold_ , his mind supplied absently.)

The painting stared at him when he stood and stretched. It was technically fine, good, even, but Merlin couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness when he looked at it. Portrait-Arthur looked cold, somehow, and the real Arthur, whether breathless and laughing or quietly furious, always burned bright and hot. Merlin tore his gaze away and went to bed, dissatisfaction turning over in the back of his mind.

* * *

_In his dream, he stood in a faceless crowd again, this time outdoors and arranged around a clear central area. For the first time in the dreams, Merlin was aware of having magic, but the slight hum he felt when he lit a candle with a thought in his waking life paled in comparison to this_ roar _, this deep, roiling well just below the surface. The air around him felt thick with it. Automatically, he scanned for Arthur in the crowd._

_The crowd cheered as two knights entered the arena, the sound reaching Merlin as though through water. One wore a yellow favour, one red. They nodded to each other and then, at some inaudible signal, the match was on._

_Yellow moved more quickly to begin with, raining blow after blow on Red’s shield, barely giving him time to get his sword up. But even for trained knights a sword had to get heavy eventually, and he started to slow, the difference barely noticeable at first._

_Soon, though, there were gaps in his offence, and after a few significant ones Red exploded into action, drawing himself up to his full height from under his shield and adjusting his grip on his sword. Now Yellow was the one with no time to recover, ducking as best he could under a series of confident, skilful manoeuvres that even Merlin could tell weren’t meant to do real damage._

_The sword landed again and again, the dull sound reverberating through the arena over the buzz of the crowd. Yellow stumbled and fell, Red’s sword hovering where his helmet met his armour. He yielded, and accepted Red’s hand up as the crowd shouted._

_Red turned and removed his helmet, and a small, conscious part of Merlin’s mind groaned. Of course it was Arthur, why wouldn’t it be, at this rate? He held his sword aloft, sweaty and panting and just a little bit arrogant. He turned and grinned at Merlin, whose breath caught._

_He walked towards him, to within a handful of feet, and tossed the helmet to Merlin carelessly. Time slowed. He reached out for it, eyes locked on Arthur’s as it arced towards him in the air._

* * *

Merlin woke up, and immediately and uncomfortably realised he was hard. He threw his head back into the pillow in frustration. This was really getting out of hand. He was leaving the next day, Arthur was getting married in a matter of weeks and, most importantly, Merlin’s (admittedly vague) life plan did not include getting executed for his…preferences. He sighed and ran a hand over his face, feeling the new stubble that had sprung up since he had arrived.

The sun slowly rose above the horizon and the morning light turned pink. He stared at the ceiling. His last day at Pendragon House had begun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or had it? Also, this just in: Uther a tool in every life.
> 
> Quotes for this chapter:  
> -“I look at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world” (Frank O’Hara, ['Having a Coke with You'](https://poets.org/poem/having-coke-you))  
> -“Your body told me in a dream it’s never been afraid of anything.” (Richard Siken, [‘Detail of the Woods’](https://poets.org/poem/detail-woods))  
> -“Being in love is an elaborate state of anticipation for the continual exchanging of certain kinds of gifts. The gifts can range from a glance to the offering of the entire self. But the gifts must be gifts: they cannot be claimed. One has no rights as a lover – except the right to anticipate what the other wishes to give.” (John Berger, _G: A Novel_ )  
> -“The gaze, human or animal, is a powerful thing. When we look at something, we decide to fill our entire existence, however briefly, with that very thing. To fill your whole world with a person, if only for a few seconds, is a potent act.” (Ocean Vuong, [‘Survival as a Creative Force’](https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2019/06/05/survival-as-a-creative-force-an-interview-with-ocean-vuong/)) 
> 
> Next time: a risk, a confession (but which one?), a crisis-cigarette, and an unexpected reaction. 
> 
> Thank you for reading - things speeding up a bit from here on in, please come on back and see how they fail to manage their feelings. Let me know what you thought!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like ‘chapter 5/10’ takes any suspense out of this ‘last day’ business but here, have this, a semi-dramatic chapter. Enjoy!

The painting was finished. It was. So Merlin couldn’t explain why he was still standing in front of it, rolling a paintbrush between his fingers. The portrait’s hair was neat, the proportions good, and the fine clothes sat as naturally as he could hope for, without a model to draw from. Portrait-Arthur looked stiff and severe, but he supposed that was sort of the point.

Frustrated, he blew out a heavy breath. Even if he had had more time, he knew he wouldn’t be happy. There was just something about it bothering him, something missing. He forced himself to put down the brush and allowed a final ten seconds to look over it before turning away. He needed a distraction.

He left his sleeves rolled up, grateful that he didn’t have to worry about rogue paint for once, and left the room, locking the door behind him.

For the first time, Merlin cursed the beautiful wide hallways of Pendragon House, as Uther stepped out into the same one and immediately spotted him.

“Mr Emrys.”

“My lord.”

“Finished, I presume?” he said, frowning at Merlin as though he might have been concealing the portrait behind his back.

“Yes, sir.”

Uther looked pointedly at the door Merlin had just come through and Merlin was suddenly seized with the desire not to show him. He met Uther’s gaze.

“Actually, sir, I was hoping to show Arthur first. With your permission,” he lowered his eyes and waited.

Uther studied him, then nodded briskly. “Very well. I’m leaving tonight. I will be by to see it this afternoon.”

“Sir.”

Uther stepped past Merlin without another word and strode off to wherever he went during the day. Merlin let out a breath. He was not going to miss that man.

A sudden fondness rose in him for Gaius, who at least knew how to crack a smile when he wasn’t giving Merlin disapproving looks. Cheered slightly at the thought of seeing him again in a few days – and having a talk about who he associated with in his younger years – Merlin continued to the kitchen, and following a quick catch-up with Gwen, found himself waiting nervously by the front door.

His stomach was in knots already, his hands sweating. He hoped he looked better than he felt. He had always known he was only in Cornwall for the week, that his time there would come to an end, but he was acutely aware that he was about to ruin the tentative friendship only just formed between himself and Arthur. The truth was, he hadn’t expected to dislike Arthur as much as he had at initially, nor like him as much by the end. At both extremes, professional neutrality had turned out to be a pipe dream.

* * *

Arthur appeared at the top of the stairs at the creak of a floorboard, snapping Merlin out of his gloomy introspection. He looked a little nervous himself, but in fairness, he had just yesterday threatened to run away and then promptly tripped and fell in front of (and because of) Merlin, so maybe it was more embarrassment than nerves.

Merlin straightened and plastered a weak smile on his face, his heart clenching as Arthur met his eyes and relaxed minutely at whatever he found there.

By unspoken agreement they headed for the beach again, even if it was verging on too windy to be out at all. They pulled their coats more tightly around themselves as they walked, shoulders hunched up against the biting wind.

The sea was getting choppy, the rocks they’d walked on the previous day now positively treacherous, great white sprays erupting along their seaward edge at regular intervals. They walked mostly in silence.

Eventually, Arthur stopped and sat, leaning against a large rock in a relatively sheltered spot. Merlin lowered himself down beside him, mouth dry. The sound of the wind dropped as his head passed the top of the boulder and he stretched his legs out in front of him, like Arthur.

Arthur’s hair was thoroughly windswept and Merlin was sure his own was no better. They watched the sea for a while, the wind calming slightly but the water remaining that murky, dangerous blue. Arthur knocked his foot against Merlin’s and he kicked back reflexively. They snorted, and tilted their heads back in sync to watch the path of a distant bird.

“Did he – did my father say anything to you last night?” Arthur said suddenly.

“He – no,” Merlin said, deciding that whatever Arthur meant – and he sounded like he meant something – it probably wasn’t Uther telling Merlin that Arthur used to skin his knees a lot.

Arthur made a neutral noise. Merlin wondered cautiously if the way was open for the question he’d been wanting to ask for a day and a half.

“What happened, at dinner the other night?” he said lightly, looking off to the side as he turned over a pebble.

Arthur let out a slightly bitter laugh. “What always happens. He said some things I disagreed with. I was reminded of my place.”

“I see.” He took it as a good sign that Arthur had even answered. “Who was that man with him, anyway?”

“Solomon Bayard. Trader, of sorts. Of people, mostly,” he added with disgust. “Lots of connections. Went to Cambridge.” His jaw clenched. “Of course, he was allowed to finish.”

“Did you – did you like it there?” Merlin said.

Arthur shrugged. “I liked being there.”

Merlin hummed in response.

“What about you?” Arthur said suddenly.

“What about me?”

“Anything,” he said, frowning. “Were you educated? Where did you go to school?”

“Oh, here and there. Had some tutors, on and off, in Bristol.” Retired art teachers, actually, but he didn’t see the need to specify just then.

“Here and there?”

Merlin supposed it didn’t really matter, anymore. “When my mother died, I didn’t know I even had an uncle for another three years, so.” He could feel Arthur’s surprise.

“What did you do?”

“This and that,” he said with a slight smile, and Arthur rolled his eyes. “My uncle has a lot of books. I caught up.”

“That must’ve been…hard.”

He shrugged, and changed the subject. “Eton, I assume?” he said, looking Arthur up and down.

“Mostly tutors and governesses, actually.”

“So Cambridge was your first time away from home?”

“For all the good it did me.”

“Didn’t do much for your manners, I agree.”

Arthur kicked him lightly and tilted his head back again, hands in the sand at his sides. Merlin watched him, eyes tracing the line of his throat as he watched the sky, gaze sticking at the point where his unbuttoned collar cast a shadow on his skin.

He looked away and swallowed. Something flipped inside him. It was his last day, yes, but then what did he really have to lose? After all, he thought – well, sometimes, he thought he caught Arthur looking, too, or looking away as Merlin turned around. And there was the day in the stables, and the bottle on the beach and – and who would he tell, anyway? Not his father.

Whatever happened, he was leaving the next day, and he had always known that however they had met - lie or no lie - whatever he did, he was never going to get to keep Arthur. That just wasn’t how things worked, not for people like him. And maybe that had to be enough. He shoved down the unhappy little voice in his head that wanted more, that had always wanted more, and let the initial spark of boldness grow.

He took a deep breath and casually lowered his left hand down by his side until it was resting flat on the sand beside Arthur’s. Arthur gave no sign that he’d noticed. Merlin let his hand drift sideways until it bumped against Arthur’s. He left it there. Arthur stiffened.

Both stared determinedly ahead. Merlin was sure Arthur could feel his heartbeat through the few inches of contact along the side of their palms. He forced his hand to relax in the sand and kept his eyes steady on the horizon.

Without a word, Arthur drew his hand away slowly and Merlin closed his eyes, hurt but not surprised, only for them to snap open as a hand was slowly laid on top of his, fingers curling hesitantly around and into the sand below them.

They sat like that for a few moments, only the clear sound of the ocean and the warm weight of Arthur’s hand convincing Merlin that this wasn’t a dream, that Arthur felt something too, something quiet and frightening and fierce like the feeling he had been guarding in his own chest for days now.

Finally he turned to face Arthur, who looked quickly down and away before shyly meeting his eyes. There was fear there, but also a hint of defiance that was so Arthur that it was all Merlin could do not to kiss him there and then, to find out if his lips tasted like salt the way his own did.

Remarkably, Arthur seemed to be having similar thoughts, and his gaze dropped obviously to Merlin’s lips then back up. He shifted and turned slightly to the right, lifting his hand from where it was covering Merlin’s on the sand. He brought it up to Merlin’s face slowly and traced his jawline, grains of sand still sticking to his fingertips. Merlin could hardly breathe. Arthur tilted his head ever so slightly and laid his hand flat against Merlin’s neck.

A huge wave crashed onto the shore and the cold water might as well have been dumped over Merlin’s head. A similarly-sized wave of guilt and self-loathing washed over him. How could he even think of letting this happen when all he had done was lie to Arthur since the moment they’d met? Arthur had been trying so hard, nervously offering up tiny, precious pieces of himself, opening up the only way he knew how. And what had Merlin done in return but lie and omit and obfuscate?

His chest ached. He brought a hand up to Arthur’s wrist and held it.

“Arthur,” he said quietly, and Arthur froze, searching Merlin’s eyes. His own shuttered completely and he jerked his hand out of Merlin’s grasp and turned away. “Arthur, listen to me –”

“Please, excuse me,” Arthur said in an awful, strangled voice, refusing to look at him.

“No, Arthur, you have to let me - you don't -”

“I understand perfectly –”

“I’ve been lying to you!” Merlin said loudly, desperate for Arthur to hear him. “It’s not that I don’t – that I feel nothing for you, you must believe me, but I haven’t been honest with you and I cannot let this go further without telling you – telling you the truth.”

Arthur met his gaze, looking anguished. “The truth,” he said hollowly.

Merlin closed his eyes and swallowed down the lump in his throat. “About why I’m here. Your father,” – Arthur jerked as though he’d been slapped – “Your father asked me here to paint your portrait. He asked me not to tell you. But you must believe me, I –”

But Arthur was already scrambling to his feet, raking a hand through his hair and down to cover his mouth. He turned and pointed at Merlin, who was still trying to get words out.

“Don’t,” he said roughly, and walked towards the sea.

Merlin was paralysed, one hand still held out where he had tried to hold onto Arthur’s. He watched as he stood at the shoreline for a moment, before, inexplicably, taking off his coat and throwing it in a heap behind him.

He kicked off his shoes and dumped them on top of it, chucking his socks after them, and stood, hesitating as the water crept over his feet. His hand drifted to his neck and eventually he pulled his shirt over his head too. It joined the rest.

Merlin stared, but Arthur waded in without a backward glance, diving into the waves as soon as they lapped at his knees. He had said he could swim, Merlin knew, but the water looked frankly hostile to even experienced swimmers, rough and undoubtedly ice cold. What if he hit his head on a rock? Or got pulled further out by a strong current?

Arthur’s head broke the surface again but Merlin didn’t relax, his spine ramrod straight, eyes following the circle of dark blond as it bobbed up and down. Eventually Arthur started to make his way back to the shore, and staggered out onto the sand.

He ran a hand over his hair again and reached down, balling up his shirt and drying himself with it roughly before putting it back on and picking up the rest of his clothes. Merlin realised he was coming back and had no idea what to do.

Arthur sat down heavily where he had been before and dusted off his feet before replacing his socks and shoes. His breath was loud and uneven as he shivered, visibly clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He threw his coat around his shoulders without putting his arms through the holes and pulled it around himself, knees bent and rocking slightly as he looked at the horizon.

Merlin let go of the iron grip he’d had on his own hands while Arthur was in the water and flexed them, noting distantly the white marks he’d left on himself where he’d cut the circulation. Gradually Arthur’s shivering slowed. He picked at the wet material on his legs with distaste and sighed. Merlin tensed.

“So.”

“So,” Merlin repeated weakly.

Arthur looked at him, eyes the colour of the sea and just as unfathomable. He stood up and gave Merlin a grim smile.

“Let’s see this portrait then.”

* * *

They walked back to the house in tense silence. More than once, Merlin opened his mouth to speak and thought better of it. Arthur pulled ahead more the closer they got, and once inside, took off up the stairs, presumably to change out of his wet clothes.

Merlin went to his own room and leaned miserably against the door for a moment before crossing the room and pushing the partition curtain to the side. No need for that anymore. He looked blankly at the mess of his room and couldn’t summon the energy to do anything about it.

He slid the easel and canvas over into the grey light of the window and tried not to look at it. He kicked an untidy little pile of sketches into a vaguely neater one and sat down heavily on the bed, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. Arthur walked in without waiting for an answer.

His hair was still damp and messy, and his shirt clung to his skin in places, but he had changed his lower half. Merlin watched him carefully but Arthur was busy looking disdainfully around the room.

“An artist,” he said mock thoughtfully. “Of course, I see it now.”

Merlin shrugged and stepped aside to reveal the portrait. The damage had already been done, what harm was there in him seeing it? It was flattering enough, anyway. Arthur sauntered over to stand beside him while he examined it. Merlin fixed his gaze on a spot to the left of the canvas.

Arthur leaned closer and reached out, almost touching the paint. He moved to the side, then stood back again, finally looking at Merlin, who took a second to realise and turned to face him. His stomach was still churning but it felt as though it belonged to someone else. The surface of his mind was eerily calm.

“I don’t like it,” Arthur said.

“Shocking,” he heard himself say in response. He was ignored.

“It’s fine, stylistically, I suppose,” Arthur continued, in the tone of a teacher. “Nothing special.”

“Right. Will that be all, Mr Pendragon?”

Arthur’s head snapped around at that, then he caught himself and settled for narrowing his eyes. “Anyone could’ve painted this,” he said dismissively.

“Anyone didn’t. I did.”

“There’s no – _you_ in it.”

“Do you know what a portrait is?”

Arthur shot him a look that completely bounced off his newfound veneer of indifference. “There’s just no personality to it.”

“Take it up with the subject.”

Arthur snorted. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. He put his hands in his pockets, and when he spoke again Merlin felt they had finally arrived at what Arthur really wanted to say.

“Is this how you see me?”

Merlin didn’t answer right away. He forced himself to look at the painting from a distance, as he would another artist’s work. He took in the expensive suit, the stiff, proper posture, the cold eyes and unsmiling mouth. The stillness. Real Arthur was never still, even when he thought he was trying to be. Always chewing his lip or picking at a fingernail, like Merlin could tell he was doing now, even with his hands in his pockets.

Merlin considered him, and Arthur raised an eyebrow. He suddenly became aware that his answer to this question was very important to Arthur, somehow. He decided to take a chance and tell the truth. ( _For a change_ , a little voice in his head said nastily.)

“No,” he said abruptly. “It’s not.” He hesitated, then held up a hand indicating for Arthur to wait and moved, turning to his bed and dropping to the floor to rifle through his papers. He separated out his early studies of Arthur’s features and his own personal fantasy drawings until all that was left was dream Arthur.

He paused, then stood and turned, thrusting them out to Arthur, who looked surprised to have received an answer to his question at all, much less an honest one. Merlin felt his face flush as he held out the pictures against every instinct he had to keep them hidden. Arthur accepted the drawings gently and Merlin let his hand drop.

“They’re just – sketches, I know it’s silly and fantastical and probably inappropriate, but –”

Arthur was studying them closely, a slight frown on his face, turning them over one by one to see the other images on the back. The knight, the sword, the crown.

“They’re good,” he said suddenly, without looking up. Merlin was thrown off his weak string of explanations.

“What?”

“They’re better than _that_ ,” Arthur said distractedly, waving at the portrait, sketch in hand. “At least they’re… honest, somehow.”

“They’re of…knights. And dragons,” Merlin said in disbelief. “What?”

“I didn’t say true, or realistic, did I? I said honest. Though I understand if perhaps you’ve forgotten the meaning of the word,” Arthur said.

The version of Arthur that Merlin had met upon arrival was back in full force, a façade of cold arrogance hiding the shyness and warmth he knew lay beneath. He was a stranger again, and Merlin watched helplessly as he was flashed an insincere, cold smile.

Arthur set the drawings down on the bed again and walked away, leaving the door open behind him. Merlin listened to his footsteps recede.

* * *

Merlin had never wanted to get drunk so badly in his life, but he weighed sobriety against the risk of running into any of the other members of the household and decided not to chance leaving his room. He looked around despairingly as he shut the door, and his eyes lit on his bag and he suddenly remembered the gift Gaius had given him before he’d left.

He moved quickly, stubbing his toe on the bed frame and cursing loudly. He rummaged in the bag, through scraps of paper and ends of pencils and an unread book, before finding what he was looking for – a tiny pouch of tobacco. He sat back in triumph and cast around for some thin paper.

Clumsy and out of practise, he rolled a cigarette for the first time since he was fifteen and living in a house full of boys who had passed on more than one kind of lesson from a particular kind of woman. It was untidy, but he stuck it in his mouth and lit it with a thought and a spark at his fingertips, inhaling deeply and immediately regretting it. His lungs were similarly out of practice, and he coughed and rubbed at his chest before taking a few deep breaths and looking at the cigarette with some distrust.

He opened one of the windows and sat straddling the windowsill, one leg dangling as he blew smoke up and away from the room. A wry smile came to his face as he imagined Uther’s opinion on dirty peasant boys smoking in his house. After a few drags his head swam pleasantly and he relaxed, closing his eyes and listening to the sea. It might be a long time before he heard it again.

Leaning further out, he peered down at the ground with interest, hooking his right arm up under the window frame for balance. He wobbled and pulled himself back sharply, heart thudding. After another few drags, the cigarette started to burn his fingers. He took a final inhale out of spite before swearing and stubbing it out on the outside wall of the house, vindictively pleased to have left a mark on the stone.

The cigarette end went into the fire once he had awkwardly clambered back in, and he pressed absentmindedly at the angry red spot between his forefingers. His mouth tasted of tobacco, but his head was disappointingly clear again.

Resolutely ignoring the portrait, he started haphazardly throwing things into his bag, losing several minutes to an internal debate over ripping up his drawings altogether. In the end he threw them on top of the pile in disgust and squared up to the canvas.

Disgust soon gave way to rage, which welled up in him slowly, spilling over onto everyone and everything he could think of. Uther, for trying to control Arthur’s life and asking Merlin to lie to him. Arthur, for refusing to stand up to his father and putting his stupid, cold, mask up at the first sign of trouble. The burn on his fingers. The painting.

Mostly, though, he was furious with himself, for going along with the whole thing as well as allowing himself to actually develop feelings for Arthur. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He should have known better. He did know better.

He glared at portrait-Arthur, who looked back at him, superior and impassive. It wasn’t that he hadn't ever seen him that way, if he was honest. He had, at the start. But he hated it, and he thought that perhaps the real problem was that Arthur did, too. And then he had seen what was underneath it, and let himself grow fond of it. Like an idiot.

Portrait-Arthur’s eyes seemed locked on Merlin even as he tried to drag his own away, and the frustration and hurt and regret of the day finally bubbled over.

He punched a hole in the canvas, right through the face.

The easel toppled over and fell to the floor with a clatter. Merlin hissed and shook out his throbbing hand, where the skin of his knuckles had struck wood and split, starting to bleed.

He looked at the fallen canvas and his heart sank. Uther was going to kill him.

* * *

Footsteps approached down the corridor and the door knocked again as Merlin was still staring at the hole in the now-righted canvas with no idea what to do.

It wasn’t Gwen’s knock, could it be -? The handle turned and the door swung open without invitation. Uther.

He stopped, eyes flicking between Merlin’s guilty stance and the ruined portrait. Merlin held his bleeding hand behind his back and swallowed nervously. Uther dragged his gaze from the painting and turned to face him, face blank and still.

“What is the meaning of this, Mr Emrys?” he said dangerously.

“Sir, I –”

“Mr Emrys, I asked you a question.”

“It wasn’t right,” Merlin said stiffly. “It wasn’t good enough.”

Colour started to rise in Uther’s face. “I rather think,” he began slowly, “That as the person paying for the portrait, that decision lies with me.”

Merlin was silent.

“You ungrateful little brat,” Uther said wonderingly. “I welcomed you into my home on the understanding you would carry out the one task I asked of you.” He was getting louder. “My son is getting married in three weeks, where am I going to find another painter on such short notice? How dare you do this without consulting me? I could ruin you, boy, you won’t be able to get paid work to paint so much as a wall by the time I’m through with you, and you’ll have to go back to whatever hole-in-the-hedge pigsty you obviously came from. I want you out of my house.”

Merlin took all of this without a word. He felt numb, detached.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “May I finish packing, then?”

For a moment he thought Uther was going to hit him.

“You will be gone from this house by first light,” he snarled instead.

Merlin nodded, wholly unsurprised and trying his best not to think about the veracity of Uther’s claims to influence in the art world.

Suddenly, Arthur appeared in the open doorway, obviously having heard the commotion. He looked between the two of them and the painting, an odd expression settling on his face at the hole in the canvas. Uther followed Merlin’s gaze and looked over his shoulder at his son. He started to speak again, but Arthur cut him off.

“No, he won’t.”

“What?”

“He won’t be gone. He stays.”

“Why on earth would I let this imbecile stay?” Uther said in amazement.

“He’ll paint another portrait.”

“He will not.”

“I’ll pose for it this time.”

Uther started again, bristling, but Arthur held up a hand. Uther looked outraged.

“You want a portrait painted. You have a portrait painter standing in front of you. You said yourself you’ll never get another in time. What sense does it make to send him away?” Arthur said calmly.

“Look what he did!”

“He’ll paint another,” Arthur repeated.

Uther took a deep breath and glared at Merlin as though this were his fault, too. He threw his hands in the air.

“Fine,” he said, irritated. “Do as you will. I am to leave tonight for the rest of the week. It _will_ be complete when I return.”

Merlin kept staring. Arthur cleared his throat and he jumped and nodded faintly. Uther looked him up and down with disgust and stalked out of the room, muttering to himself.

Merlin looked at Arthur uncertainly, who only raised his eyebrows at the destroyed portrait before looking at the hastily-packed bag, gaze lingering on his own image, complete with crown, at the top of the pile of sketches.

“It seems you should unpack,” he said.

“Arthur …” Merlin trailed off. What had just happened? To his shock, a tiny smile played on Arthur’s lips for a second.

“That’s King Arthur to you, Emrys.” He looked at the portrait a final time and left.

Merlin stood alone in the middle of the mess. His knuckles throbbed in time with his heartbeat, but at least the weight of the painting’s gaze was gone. He bent down and lifted the sketches from the bag, setting them on the table. For the second time that week, he slowly began to unpack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, he’s still there, they need more time, don't they? Also, Arthur fucking off into the sea after Merlin tells him the truth was the film’s idea but I think I changed all the rest of how that went. Same goes for Uther’s reaction/Arthur’s at the end. 
> 
> Quotes for this chapter: (there are gonna be.. so many more of these in all subsequent chapters. so many. you're welcome to ignore, i'm just letting you know)  
> \- “It should be enough. To make something beautiful should be enough. It isn’t. It should be.” (Richard Siken, [ ‘Landscape with a Blur of Conquerors'](https://poets.org/poem/landscape-blur-conquerors))  
> \- “So I will lie beside you here, unnamed, until my hands recover from your skin.” (John Burnside, [ ‘De Humani Corporis Fabrica’](https://poetryarchive.org/poem/de-humani-corporis-fabrica/))
> 
> Up next, a longer chapter with: wine, heavy-handed in-story storytelling (borrowed from the movie but made that way by me), drunken conversations, an apology or two, slightly hungover painting, a bonfire, and the memory of a lake… 
> 
> There’s a lot going on in the next one, I really like it even if I did make myself a bit sad writing it so come back and join me next week – Thank you so much for reading! Halfway there, kids.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** The storytelling scene here is heavily borrowed from the movie because… it’s good and I liked it? I took a few liberties but that’s essentially what it is, including the line about the poet’s choice - that's not mine. The link to the original scene (with subs) is [ here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVINp97hgvc&ab_channel=MrsrSomeone) anyway. There's also a bonfire scene in the movie, but basically all I took was the idea of a bonfire, it's not similar at all.
> 
> In addition: **Slightly spoilery content note:** A tag for past character death has been added bc the dream/memory thing of this chapter [in italics as per] deals with um. You know. The series finale. And the handful of lines around it sure do sound like someone having a panic attack, but not terribly graphic. Just a heads up.
> 
> Enjoy!

Merlin watched Uther hurry to his coach from a rain-battered hallway window, and his breath fogged the glass as he exhaled in relief. He had successfully stayed in his room all evening, setting up a new canvas and jumping at creaky floorboards until he heard the front door slam shut and rushed to watch him leave.

The room was back to its previous level of mess, evidence of panicked packing hidden once more and the bed even made out of nerves and a lack of anything else to do.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Arthur, replaying in his mind the look on his face on the beach, then when he’d seen the portrait and finally when he’d seen what Merlin had done to it. He had no idea what he was thinking, or why he’d argued for him to stay. He still seemed angry, but then he’d left on a joke and Merlin was so confused he had done everything in his power to avoid running into him and receiving confirmation one way or the other.

As if hearing Merlin’s circular but presumably loud thoughts, Arthur himself appeared at the door without so much as an audible footstep, much less a courtesy knock. He leaned against the doorframe, unfairly beautiful in the firelight. Merlin jumped and glared, trying to hide it, but guessed from Arthur’s amusement he had been unsuccessful.

“Arthur.”

“Merlin.”

“I’m so-”

Arthur made a face and interrupted. “Do you want a drink?”

“What? I’m trying to –”

“And I’m not letting you, do keep up. Wine? Come on, you can’t tell me you don’t want to celebrate Uther’s departure after your…conversation.”

Which was a very generous way to describe the way he had stood, stone-faced, while Uther raged at him. Arthur had a point, but Merlin still didn’t know what his game was, or if this meant he forgave him, or what it meant for them – if there even was a them. He looked at him closely, but in the absence of any obvious clues, shrugged and nodded. Arthur turned to leave and he followed.

They made their way to the kitchen where Gwen was washing up, and she looked so hopeful when they said ‘wine’ that they invited her to join them. She produced a tattered deck of cards from somewhere, and the increasingly complex game of snap that ensued was full of shouts and giggles and accusations of cheating. Merlin, for his part, missed his chance more than once simply out of fear of accidentally touching Arthur.

* * *

As the wine made its way down the bottle, they grew relaxed and flushed, Gwen’s hair escaping its tie and Merlin resting his chin lazily on his hand, elbows on the table. Arthur had pulled one leg up beneath him and kept blinking deliberately, trying to clear a vision apparently not as steady as he’d like. Eventually, their reaction times were far too slow for snap, and they all sat back, loose and warm.

“Someone tell – tell a story,” Gwen demanded.

“Yes! Arthur,” Merlin declared, forgetting his earlier caution and pointing at him.

Arthur grinned easily. “Why me?”

“What good is a fancy degree if you can’t even tell a story?” Merlin teased and Arthur bristled at the underlying challenge.

He stood abruptly and wobbled, recovering quickly and pointing at Merlin. “Wait here,” he said and walked out purposefully.

Gwen giggled and Merlin put his face in his hands. She sighed, still smiling, and patted his shoulder. “Oh, Merlin.” He made a pathetic noise and they gathered up the playing cards while they waited, Gwen dissolving into giggles again as Merlin dropped a whole stack on the floor and thunked his head on the table on the way up.

They had calmed down considerably by the time Arthur returned, brandishing an old book.

“Can’t tell a story,” he muttered, taking his seat and opening the book. He cleared his throat.

Unfairly, for someone whose skills decidedly did not lie in the realm of conversation, Arthur really could tell a story. Merlin suspected he was even embellishing, adding detail to the stiff prose on the page and bringing the story of Orpheus and Eurydice to life. Merlin and Gwen listened, spellbound, inexorably drawn into the world of the ancients, the gifted musician and his tragic bride and the long walk into hell for love.

“Orpheus walked deeper and deeper into the underworld, deeper than any hero before him, and as he walked, he played. At the sound of his music, every creature and tortured soul he passed stopped to listen. Cerberus, the three-headed hellhound, gazed placidly at him. Sisyphus, sweating and pushing the boulder up the hill again and again, paused and closed his eyes.”

Grudgingly, Merlin admitted that if Arthur was embellishing, he was damn good at it, no sign of hesitation on his face or in the cadence of his voice.

“At last, he reached the throne room of Hades and Persphone, the king and queen of the underworld and Orpheus again started to play. As he played, he began to sing: ‘O gods of the underworld, here where all mortals must descend, hear me. I have come to seek my wife, Eurydice, whose young life was this day cut short by the poison of a viper. I beseech you, fates, unravel the thread of her untimely death and return her to me.’” Arthur paused, eyes flicking ahead, then continued. Merlin and Gwen were still, eyes fixed on him.

“’I do swear that nothing owed to you will be denied you: all mortal men end here, reigned over by you for time eternal. She, too, will be yours one day. I ask only that she live out her fair share of years before that day, that she return here content and full of age. If you would refuse me this boon, this that I ask for my love, I will not leave this place without her, and you may claim two deaths this day.’”

Arthur stopped and reached for his wine. Gwen’s eyes were wide.

“He’s very convincing,” she said. Arthur made a noise of agreement, and took another sip. Merlin watched him.

“For the first time in all of time, tears fell from the eyes of the Eumenides, so moved were they by his words. Neither the ruler of the underworld nor his summer-scented bride could resist Orpheus’s prayer, and Persephone called Eurydice forth from where she waited, there among all the recently dead. Pale and still limping from her wound, she walked from the crowd and was received by Orpheus. And so she was to be returned to him, to the mortal world, on one condition.”

Something twinged in Merlin’s chest. There was always a catch. He had read about paintings on the myth, but they had always seemed to stop before the end of the story. Gwen looked as though she was holding her breath. 

“That he led her up out of the underworld, never looking back until they had reached the light. If Orpheus turned around, the deal would be broken and Eurydice would be taken back, forbidden to leave. In the silence, the two set off on the steep, dark path that led to the surface, enveloped in a thick mist. Up and up they walked, Orpheus first, until gradually the slope began to lessen and the darkness began to recede. Finally, they reached the threshold, the door between worlds, and Orpheus was suddenly so afraid to lose Eurydice again, so desperate to see her, that he turned around to look at her.”

Gwen inhaled sharply. Merlin was transfixed.

“As soon as his eyes met hers, she was lost to him, drawn back into the darkness. They reached out for one another, to hold and be held, but their hands closed on empty air. And Eurydice died for the second time, finding no reproach for her husband, whose only fault lay in loving her too much. Her final goodbye barely reached his ear, dissolving like mist on the air.”

There was silence. Arthur didn’t lift his eyes from the book.

“That’s – that’s awful, that poor woman,” Gwen burst out. “Why did he turn? They told him not to, there was no reason for him to turn.”

“There were reasons,” Merlin said fairly.

“What reasons? Read it again,” she ordered Arthur, who obediently went back.

“…so afraid to lose Eurydice again and so desperate to see her, Orpheus turned around to look at her.”

“Afraid to lose her, so he does the one thing that guarantees he will – what kind of reasoning is that?” she argued, looking upset.

Arthur thought about it, then shrugged. “He was madly in love, he couldn’t resist.”

Merlin hummed. “No, she’s right, he could have. He made a choice,” he said.

“What choice?” Gwen said doggedly. “To kill her again? Condemn them both to being alone?”

Merlin tried to gather the loose threads of his thoughts, slipping through his alcohol-numbed fingertips. He thought about what he really meant, about the desire to hold onto what you cannot have, about pencil smudges and golden laughter and bruised knuckles. His eye caught on Arthur’s ring as it reflected the firelight and he watched.

“I think he knew he couldn’t keep her,” he said finally. “Not really. Maybe it wasn’t even her. Maybe the line between life and death can’t be crossed with a song. He knew she was lost to him already.” He looked up at Arthur, breath catching in his throat as he forced himself to continue. “So he chose to look. He chose the memory of her. Not the lover’s choice, perhaps, but the poet’s. The artist’s,” he added quietly, eyes on Arthur’s.

Arthur looked away, back down at the book, then at Merlin again, his hands tightening on the pages ever so slightly.

“Maybe she was afraid, too,” he said, haltingly, choosing his words. “That she would be left behind, that it was all a trick, that it was wrong. Maybe she asked him to turn around.”

Arthur straightened, looking back at the page for the correct passage and shifting back into storyteller mode as he tried this theory on for size.

“Finally they reached the threshold and Orpheus, though he was afraid to lose Eurydice again and desperate to see her, kept his eyes fixed on the path as they climbed.”

Arthur met Merlin’s eyes again.

“But behind him, he heard a soft voice, the voice of his wife, and she said ‘Look at me.’ And he could not refuse her.”

They were silent, absorbing this. A log popped and crackled in the dying fire and Gwen yawned, suddenly.

“I still think it’s awful,” she said matter-of-factly. “No matter the reason. He could have had her back.”

“Could he? Maybe Arthur’s right, maybe it was all a trick. Maybe she was never really there.”

“It’s about faith, Merlin,” Gwen said primly.

“I think she was there,” Arthur said.

“Well, they’re both terrible options.” Gwen sighed. “And on that cheerful note, I really must go to bed.” She stood and pushed out her chair, bending on her way past to drop a shy kiss on each of their cheeks. They murmured their goodnights as she left and sat back, watching the embers dance.

Arthur sighed. “Are you calling it a night too? Because honestly –”

“God, no,” Merlin blurted. “Another bottle?” Arthur grinned.

* * *

Somehow, they ended up in Merlin’s room, passing it back and forth. Merlin still had no idea where they stood with one another, but his inebriated brain supposed that that was why they weren’t standing at all, but rather lying top-to-tail on the floor in front of the fire. He watched the firelight dance on the ceiling.

“God, your father terrifies me,” he said suddenly, with feeling.

Arthur snorted. “Squash you like a fly,” he agreed.

“Hey, I didn’t mean I couldn’t take him if I wanted to.”

“Oh, sure.” Arthur giggled, but caught himself and cut the sound off quickly.

“As if you could take anyone, you posh prat. Have you ever even been in a fight?”

“Does my sister count?”

“No.”

“Then yes,” he said. Merlin waited. “It was a draw,” he admitted, and they both laughed. “Come on, how many fights can you have been in?”

“I wasn’t always the delicate, sensitive artist you see before you,” Merlin said, waving a hand in the air. He fumbled for the bottle and took a sip, setting it back between them.

“Oh, a delinquent, then? A misspent youth?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“I can’t imagine it,” Arthur said.

“I wasn’t very good at it,” Merlin admitted with a smile. Arthur snorted. “But I did win at least one fight, so. More than you can say.”

Arthur hummed. “Did you really apprentice for your uncle? Or were you –” he trailed off and Merlin understood he meant ‘going to art school so you could come here and lie to me’.

“For about five minutes. My bedside manner is somewhat lacking, apparently. He realised I would rather draw people than heal them and paid for lessons to get me out from under his feet.”

“Entirely understandable.”

Merlin hit him lightly on the hip and decided to push this talkative Arthur as far as he could. “What was Cambridge like, then?”

“Beautiful. Old,” Arthur said. He sat up just enough to take another drink, then lay back down.

“Fun?”

He sighed. “If you have the right kind of friends, I imagine so.”

“What were you going to do with it?”

“Teach, maybe. Was art always what you wanted?”

Merlin shrugged. “I like it, but I don’t know if I can do it forever. The things I want to paint aren’t necessarily the right things,” he said.

He could hear the smile in Arthur’s voice. “The dragons?”

Merlin covered his face with one hand. “The bloody dragons. I never should have shown you those.”

“No, I meant it. They’re good. There was another one I saw – in the pile – very…dragon-y. With the ones of me… of me as a knight.” Arthur was rapidly losing the battle to suppress his giggling.

Merlin groaned. “Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking either.”

“You’d be – you’d be my servant,” Arthur said breathlessly.

“I’d be the king, arsehole.”

“You can’t be a king, you’re a,” – Arthur was laughing now – “A peasant.”

Merlin, helpless, joined him. “The first peasant king of England and his knight who’s – who’s never won a fight.” They collapsed into giggles, and Merlin was distantly aware that it might not have been that funny if they were sober. But they decidedly weren’t. He reached for the bottle clumsily and shook it. Empty.

After, they both lay staring up at the ceiling, Merlin with a hand behind his head and Arthur with his clasped loosely on his chest. Sometimes it seemed like this was the only way they could bear each other’s proximity, this careful not looking.

“I am sorry, you know,” Merlin said, eventually, sobering up suddenly.

“I know,” Arthur said softly. “You were just doing your job. What my father told you to do. I can’t blame you for that.” He bit his lip. “I’m sorry, too.”

Merlin blinked. “What for?” he said, although he could think of a few things, actually.

Arthur’s giddiness had definitely faded to introspection, and he was quiet for a moment. “For everything. The way I treated you. I – I never had many friends, before,” he said, and Merlin knew for sure that he could not have looked him in the eye and said the same.

He ached to imagine him alone. “Me neither. Not for a long time. Not since –”

“Will, right?”

Merlin snorted. “Oh, you were _so_ listening, that first day.” He nudged at Arthur playfully with his foot.

“I always listen to you,” Arthur said simply. Merlin didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t tell if the heat in his face was a blush or the wine or the fire.

They listened to each other breathe.

“So what now?” Merlin said, unsure what he meant, exactly, but dreading the answer all the same.

“Now? Now we paint a portrait.”

* * *

Merlin woke the next morning and immediately wished he hadn’t. He found himself wondering why, in the name of all that was holy, they had fallen asleep on the floor. His back hurt just from breathing, and whatever light had crept into the room felt like it was burrowing through his eyelids to bang on a door in his skull. He tensed experimentally, but the thought of sitting up was immediately cancelled. He groaned, and heard Arthur stir beside him, inches away. Bitterly, he hoped he was suffering, too.

Arthur made a pained noise that confirmed he was and sat up, taking several deep breaths before he could let go of his head. Merlin, who had cracked his eyes open to see, watched him blink, wincing. Reluctantly he sat up and joined him. He stretched and something popped in his back.

They sat in slightly horrified silence, then by unspoken agreement carefully lay back down. The floor suddenly seemed much more comfortable.

“So,” Merlin said hoarsely. Arthur groaned.

“Please don’t paint me like this.”

Merlin laughed, then stopped. “Oh, God, I have to _paint_ like this.”

Arthur snorted. “Later. Please.” Merlin nodded as best he could while lying down and trying not to move.

“We could – we could go for a walk first? Clear our heads,” Arthur said, strangely tentative.

“With me?” Merlin said, surprised. “I thought you’d want to go alone, today.”

“If you don’t want to –”

Merlin smacked him lightly. “All I meant is that your father is gone, and he’s the one who made you have a chaperone.”

“Companion.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night. But you have your freedom, now.”

“Is that what freedom is? Being alone?”

“Jesus, Arthur, being hungover certainly makes you maudlin.”

“Do you want to come or not?” Arthur ground out, hands over his face.

“Yes, you dolt. I – I like spending time with you.”

“Funny way of showing it.”

“I thought you – You know what, never mind. I got on a _horse_ for you,” Merlin reminded him, disgusted.

“And your suffering showed, trust me.”

They both snorted, then stopped when it hurt their heads.

* * *

After breakfast and copious amounts of water, both were feeling better enough to make a start on the painting without a walk, keenly aware of Uther’s deadline. Merlin was nervous, but shoved it down and let the work take over, setting up a platform and seat for Arthur, adding another box off to the side.

Arthur couldn’t have looked more bored.

“This is important.”

“It’s really not, Merlin.”

“It’s going to hang in your home,” he said, firmly shutting down the slight pang that idea brought.

“I’m going to be in my damned home, what do I need a portrait for?”

“Fine, then your father will eviscerate me if I mess this up again, is that a good enough reason?”

“Maybe,” Arthur allowed. “Why did you, anyway?”

“What?”

“Mess it up. The first one.”

“I told him it wasn’t right, and it wasn’t. And I told you I didn’t see you like that, and I don’t. That’s all.” Arthur hummed and Merlin stood back to examine his view of the scene. “Well, it’ll do. Go put on something nice.”

“What?”

“I can’t paint you like that, that’s another eviscerable offence right there. Go put on something nice,” Merlin repeated impatiently.

Arthur looked sadly down at his crumpled shirt, complete with a wine stain on the chest. He sighed and got up to leave, Merlin only staring a little as he stretched.

“And do something with your hair.” Arthur shot him a rude gesture over his shoulder.

* * *

He returned ten minutes later, dressed to the nines and looking extremely put-upon. He fidgeted incessantly, fiddling with his collar, his cuffs, anything he could reach. Merlin eyed this constant motion with a distinct sense of foreboding.

He made him move this way and that, turning his head and torso by minute amounts in different directions until Arthur started to look a little dangerous and Merlin decided the angle was fine, after all.

“Put your arm on the – No, not like that.”

“How can I possibly be doing that wrong?”

“You are, here, give me –” Merlin threw up his hands and moved out from behind the easel, walking over to Arthur.

He reached out impatiently to manoeuvre Arthur’s arm and stopped, an inch away. He looked up and saw Arthur watching him calmly. Right. He moved Arthur’s arm into the pose he wanted, careful to only touch the material of the jacket and as lightly as he could. He positioned Arthur’s elbow on the box and moved his hand back to his lap, reaching for the other before stopping again and clearing his throat.

“Just – Grab your other hand.”

“Like this?”

“No, the other way,” he sighed and touched Arthur’s cuff lightly, shifting his hand into the right place. He was suddenly very aware of their proximity, the imagined heat of Arthur’s skin crackling in the space between them.

He was leaning near Arthur’s shoulder, fussing with the folds of the jacket at his elbow, when he breathed in slowly and was surprised to catch a hint of citrus. Had Arthur put on cologne for this? He fought a smile.

Arthur was tense under his hands, apparently trying to breathe as little as possible, still for once. Merlin stepped away and exhaled, hearing Arthur do the same.

“Well?”

“You’ll do,” Merlin said, smirking at the offended sound as he made his way back to the easel and lifted his charcoal.

* * *

They made a solid start to the portrait, which was, Merlin thought, strangely much easier when the subject was sitting in front of him. It was almost entirely sketched out on the canvas, most of the base colours for Arthur’s skin and clothes laid down, and Merlin was contemplating his palette when Gwen knocked and interrupted.

She looked between them, amused. Arthur scowled. She held up a shopping bag.

“I went to town,” she said, by way of explanation. “Some of the village girls told me there’s going to be a bonfire on the beach tonight. Do you want to go?”

They looked at each other and shrugged.

“Yes, then,” Merlin said.

“Does that mean we can stop soon?” Arthur said hopefully, tugging at his collar again even as Merlin tutted at him.

“Fine, I can finish up for the day without you.”

Arthur made a noise of relief and a beeline for the door, already shrugging off his jacket and muttering something about ‘managed a whole painting without me last time.’ Gwen giggled. Merlin rolled his eyes.

* * *

Later, when it was fully dark, the three of them made their way down to the beach. Arthur and Merlin walked close together, arms brushing together and Merlin’s heart speeding up. Unexpectedly, and without a word, Arthur took Merlin’s hand and held it loosely until he recovered enough to squeeze it back, his stomach fluttering even as he tried to give it a talking-to.

He looked at Arthur, who was typically looking ahead, and thought about ‘I never had many friends’, and a lifetime of Uther and severe tutors and a distant university where everyone was both like Arthur and nothing like him.

Arthur smiled, suddenly, and looked at Merlin shyly. Merlin smiled back, and they held on until they neared the bonfire, when they reluctantly let go. Both flexed their hands at the loss. Gwen drew closer to them and bumped her shoulder against Merlin’s companionably, winking at Arthur, who looked embarrassed but pleased.

They found a crowd already gathered around a decently-sized bonfire, wine already flowing and little groups forming around the edges. Gwen was greeted warmly, and all three had a bottle of wine pressed into their hands, passing it around. Arthur looked uncertain, hovering near Merlin and Gwen. Merlin got drawn into an unexpected conversation about art and Gwen was cornered and flirted awkwardly with by several scrawny teenage boys, eyes signalling the others for help.

Gradually they split up, and Merlin drifted around to the other side of the fire, taking another drink and admiring the moonlight on the surface of the sea. He wondered how he was ever going to leave this place. He took a too-big gulp and grimaced, looking around for Arthur. He spotted him across the flames, standing quietly in a circle of boys laughing and joking with each other, fiddling with his drink but a smile playing on his lips. Gradually the boys dispersed, clapping Arthur on the shoulder as they went, and he stood alone. He met Merlin’s eyes across the fire and Merlin felt a jolt run through him.

He raised his drink and Arthur rolled his eyes but did the same. Merlin’s eyes drifted down and he did a double take, totally convinced for a second that Arthur himself was on fire, somehow, before blinking. Arthur looked at him, concerned, and he smiled weakly and drained his drink, making for the shore for a moment of quiet.

Arthur joined him and they stood, listening to the laughter and song behind them and the rush of the vastness in front. To the left, some boys ran from the beach, whooping and laughing and yelling as they hit the cold water and splashed each other. Arthur turned to Merlin, hazy and relaxed, and grinned.

“Fancy a swim, Mr Emrys?”

“Are you mad?”

“Maybe,” Arthur agreed, eyes dropping conspicuously to Merlin’s lips, and then he was gone, not even bothering to remove his shoes this time as he waded into the silvery waves and fell beneath the surface.

Merlin’s heart sped up. It was too dark to keep watch for Arthur’s hair, the moonlight only creating an endlessly shifting surface of light and dark. Nonsensically, he looked up at the stars and then back, suddenly finding himself moving forward until the cold water seeped into his shoes, scanning the black for Arthur.

Finally, Arthur burst up out of the waves to Merlin’s left and staggered forward, shivering. Merlin almost sagged in relief, until the firelight found Arthur again and he quickly zeroed in on the way he was coughing, his hand held to his side.

* * *

Arthur had, in fact, cut his hand on a rock and swallowed sea water while he was cursing, but Merlin didn’t know that, didn’t know anything but the sight of Arthur collapsing on the shore in relief.

At that point, the sound of the sea and the crackle of the fire and Gwen’s concerned voice suddenly faded to a distant roar and Merlin fell to his hands and knees. Something was wrong. He held a shaking hand to his head and squinted at Arthur through blurred vision, seeing him still lying on his back by the water. The dim light flickered.

And suddenly the world spun and it was like one of his dreams. One minute he was on the beach in the dark, and the next it was a dull afternoon on the shores of a calm lake and he, whoever he was, was crying so hard he could barely breathe.

* * *

_Arthur, this strange but so familiar Arthur, in old fashioned clothes and the remains of armour, shifted in Merlin’s lap and hissed in pain, pressing bloody lips together. Merlin’s hand scrabbled uselessly against Arthur’s side, where even now, after days of travel, blood still escaped sluggishly at his touch._

_He tried to slow his breathing and focus, closing his eyes and sending burst after burst of powerful magic down his arm, again and again. He could feel that it wasn’t working, and if he could feel it then so could Arthur, who was staring up at him, eyes clouded with pain._

_“Merlin,” he said. “Merlin, stop.”_

_“No,” Merlin said shakily. “No, don’t you dare try to say goodbye, you absolute prat, stay with me, please stay with me.”_

_“Always.”_

_“Then fight, fight and stay, God damn you. I can’t fix this, I can’t –” Merlin took a great, shuddering breath and Arthur grabbed the hand that was pressed against his wound and pressed it to his lips until Merlin calmed down. The blood on Merlin’s hand coated Arthur’s, too._

_“It’s okay.”_

_“It’s not okay, how can you say that, I should have – ”_

_“This isn’t your fault.”_

_Merlin wanted to scream, to yell and ask whose fault was it, then, abruptly furious at the sheer cosmic unfairness of it all._

_Arthur’s eyes slipped closed for a second and Merlin panicked._

_“Arthur, Arthur look at me.”_

_“Just sleeping.”_

_“Not today, come on, up and at ‘em. Rise and shine.”_

_Arthur snorted weakly and groaned with pain, but opened his eyes, and Merlin knew they were the same shade of blue as they’d been the day they’d met, even if the barely-aware Merlin-within-the-dream had no idea when that was. The words that forced their way through the lump in his throat weren’t his own, rising of their own accord and attaching themselves to the pain in his chest._

_“Arthur, you can’t do this, you can’t leave me, I can’t do this without you.”_

_“You have to,” Arthur said, terribly calm. “I’m sorry, my love.”_

_“Fuck you,” Merlin spat, crying again. “Stay with me. Stay for me.”_

_Arthur just looked at him sadly and Merlin’s mind raced, thoughts jumbled and panicked as he searched desperately for something he might have missed, something he hadn’t tried yet. Nothing._ _Gradually, his tears stopped and a kind of numbness seeped in in their place._

_He studied Arthur’s face with a sort of desperation, like a painter who had to paint from memory, trying desperately to fix the slope of his nose and the curve of his lips in his mind._

_He leaned down to kiss him fiercely, bloodied mouth and all. Arthur kissed him back, bringing a hand up to tangle in Merlin’s hair like he’d done a dozen times before and rising up to meet him, before falling back with a grimace._

_He was paler now, and Merlin cradled his face, whispering nonsense and wanting more than anything to just go back, to stop this, to have just one more slow, lazy day with Arthur, before the war, before any of it, when it was just them, uncertain looks and teasing insults and quiet talks leading to careful touches and golden days pressed against each other._

_Tears started to fall again as Arthur’s breathing started to change and slow._

_“I love you, you know,” Arthur said, looking intensely at Merlin, willing him to understand as his own tears made tracks in the dirt of his face. He had never said it before, this thing between them too fragile and new, but Merlin understood. He laughed wetly._

_“I loved you first,” he whispered, and Arthur smiled at him like the sun and broke his heart and slipped away._

_Merlin pressed his lips together and shook, leaning to press his forehead to Arthur’s tightly, as if he could bring him back by touch and will and love alone._

_He threw back his head, then, and yelled, a hoarse, painful sound that split the peaceful scene wide open with his grief, and pulled back so sharply on his magic that he was almost sick, afraid of what it might do if he let it go._

_And then the scene changed, and Merlin was still reeling as time skipped and he looked down at his hands, still bloody but outstretched now, making a raft and conjuring flowers like it was nothing at all. The flowers bled together as his vision blurred with fresh tears and he blinked furiously before turning back to Arthur._

_He lifted him onto the raft without magic. He closed his eyes gently and dropped a kiss on each eyelid, before pressing his lips to his one last time. He stepped back and wiped pointlessly at his face._

_“Come back to me, you hear?” he muttered, and sent the boat off with the most painful burst of magic he’d ever called, watching as it floated away._

_It took everything in him not to walk in after it, following Arthur like he always did, and simply lie down on the lake bed and sleep in his arms. He watched for a while longer, then sighed, cried out and bone-tired and feeling more alone than he’d ever felt._

_“I’ll wait for you,” he said softly, and turned away._

* * *

And then he was back and the first thing he knew in the here and now was that he was vomiting and it tasted like lake water and blood and smoke and he was still crying, gasping for breath.

Slowly, the world came back to him, his hands and knees in the damp sand, his throat burning and Arthur’s hand warm on his back. His and Gwen’s voices gradually filtered through, laced with panic but not so much that the same amount of time could’ve passed for them as in the world of the dream.

He started to pick out words and nodded weakly at last. His breath gradually lost its rasping, sobbing quality and he realised that his little spectacle was starting to attract outside attention, which he promptly heard Gwen tell to clear off.

Arthur’s hand lifted from his back and he mourned its loss before the vision hit him all over again and his head snapped up to meet Arthur’s terrified face.

What the hell was happening to him?

It had been like the dreams, there was no question that the Arthur who had died in his arms was the one he’d been dreaming and drawing for a week, but the similarities ended there. There had been no agonising slow motion, no dulled sound and shimmers of unreality in whatever that had been. Merlin had heard the gentle lapping of the lake’s water and felt Arthur’s blood on his fingertips as real as the sand beneath them now.

The slippery feel of it crawled over him with such awful clarity that he suddenly had to check that this Arthur, his Arthur, was alright, and he scrambled to sit back upright, eyes raking up and down his soaking clothes for damage. Arthur still looked scared.

“Are you alright?” he demanded hoarsely.

“Am I – What kind of question is that, are you alright, Merlin?”

Merlin ignored him. “When you came out of the water you – your side, you were coughing.”

Arthur looked puzzled, but then comprehension dawned and he shook his head frantically. “No, no, I’m fine. I just swallowed some water after I cut my hand, see? That’s all.”

Merlin grabbed his outstretched hand and traced the already healing cut in his palm with his thumb before exhaling and sitting back properly.

“Merlin, what –” Arthur started, palm still held out.

“I’m fine. Wine didn’t agree with me. I’m fine,” he said dully, not sure if he had ever been less fine. He dragged his eyes from Arthur’s hand with difficulty and looked out at the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To reiterate, most of the Orpheus/Eurydice scene is borrowed [ from the movie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVINp97hgvc&ab_channel=MrsrSomeone). Also, if it was unclear, I have decided that this canon-era Merlin and Arthur started to have a thing in the weeks before Arthur died. They didn't get much time, but their past selves also loved each other romantically because I say so. 
> 
> And quotes:  
> \- “Here when I say "I never want to be without you," / somewhere else I am saying / "I never want to be without you again." And when I touch you / in each of the places we meet / In all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying / and resurrected. / When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life, / in each place and forever.” (Bob Hicok, [ ‘Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem’](http://pa56.org/ross/hicok.htm))  
> \- “Why love what you will lose? / There is nothing else to love.” (Louise Glück, ‘From the Japanese’)  
> \- "I think of you as the hero in a story I once heard. Not a story I’m inventing…I couldn’t invent you if I lived a hundred lives." and "The ephemeral is not the opposite of the eternal. The opposite of the eternal is the forgotten." (John Berger, _From A to X: A Story in Letters_ )  
> \- “ORPHEUS: I love you. / EURYDICE: I love you, too. / O: How will you remember? / E: That I love you? / O: Yes. / E: That’s easy. I can’t help it.” (Sarah Ruhl, _Eurydice_ )  
> \- And this song, bc: “And if as we’re walking, our hands should slip free, I’ll wait for you; should I fall behind, wait for me.” (Bruce Springsteen, [ ‘If I Should Fall Behind’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P5spsKjK7j4&ab_channel=Elaine8492))
> 
> Next time: Looking that goes both ways, horrible weather, the beach, a kiss (!) but then also another traumatic memory. Sorry. But we might even edge towards a ratings bump, so stay tuned.
> 
> Thank you for reading as always! Please let me know if it, you know, made you sad or anything.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things heating uppp, in a few ways. Three (!) scenes here are inspired by their film counterparts. I will link those in the end notes bc a) good film and b) don’t want to seem like I’m claiming full originality here, lmao. 
> 
> **Another spoilery TW for the dream-memory of this chapter:** suicide/attempted suicide – this is in italics as usual and if anyone doesn’t want to read it I’ll explain in end notes! I added a tag for referenced suicide because I already have a 'past character death' and like. It's in the past, and it doesn't stick. But let me know if that seems wrong, I guess?
> 
> Enjoy!

They had stumbled back to the house, after that, Arthur still dripping and Merlin seeing his life bleed out under his hands every time he closed his eyes. The cold air cut at their faces, and the sounds of the bonfire and the waves faded gradually.

Gwen had moved from the panicked, insistent kind of worry to a quieter kind, but she gripped Merlin’s arm the whole way back, the fun and flirting of the evening long forgotten for all of them, buried under the sudden avalanche of memory.

At the top of the path they paused and Merlin tilted his head back to look at the stars, desperate for something to imprint on the back of his eyelids that wasn’t Arthur’s pale face and the lake. Immediately, Gwen was there, asking if he was alright, while Arthur hovered off to the side nervously, and while Merlin hated what he’d seen, he found himself hating even more that they’d seen _him_.

He turned to Gwen and dragged up a smile in the dark. “I suppose I shouldn’t drink,” he said, but it fell flat, not least because they had already seen him drunk and knew perfectly well that what happened on the beach wasn’t that. Gwen smiled uncertainly, clearly humouring him, and looped her arm through his again, holding tight like she could keep him from falling apart.

Merlin reached for Arthur’s hand again and Arthur took it, but there was no lovers’ shyness, no quiet thrill to the touch this time, worry bleeding though his grip, too and blotting out the memory of the excitement on the way to the bonfire.

Merlin let go as they reached the house. He saw more questions rise in both of them and held up a hand, suddenly more exhausted than he’d ever been. “Thank you both for a lovely night, but I would really just like to sleep.”

They nodded unhappily, and the three of them wished each other goodnight before parting ways. Merlin could feel Arthur’s eyes on him as he turned down his own corridor and forced himself to keep moving, to keep his back straight and his eyes ahead until he was through his own door.

Once in, he slid down the inside of the door to the floor and put his head in his hands. Was he going mad?

* * *

Merlin spent the night drifting in and out, afraid to give in to sleep fully in case the dream-vision came back, or came back stronger and pulled him so deep he wouldn’t be able to climb out.

He stared at the fire until his vision blurred, knowing that Arthur’s bleeding body would be waiting for him in the dark. When his eyes began to truly drop shut and he was almost unable to force them back open, he decided to stand, to walk rather than wait, and set off into the house, leaving the room and its warmth behind.

But the hallways of Pendragon House proved no refuge and twice, he ended up frozen in horror, heart thudding in his chest as he turned a corner to see Arthur waiting for him, dying. The first time, Arthur the knight, the king, had simply stood, looking down at the growing patch of red on his chest. The second time, it had been his Arthur, in his modern finery, who touched a hand to the wound before looking at Merlin helplessly and disappearing like a candle going out when Merlin rushed towards him.

After that, all of Merlin’s good reasons for avoiding Arthur’s corridor were forgotten and as he got his breathing under control, he found his feet taking him there, unerringly silent in the dark.

Arthur was sure to be asleep by now, and however much he wanted to see him, to touch his warm skin and feel him breathing, he knew he couldn’t. So he settled for stopping outside his bedroom door and pressing a hand to the wood in poor substitute before forcing himself to move on, somewhat calmer.

In his inattention, he stepped on a creaking floorboard and froze. There was a slight shifting from the room, the sound of a body turning over in bed, and then silence. He let out a breath, having avoided being caught and inadvertently received confirmation Arthur was safe and well in the same moment. His heartbeat settled, and the gnawing pit in his stomach inched towards normal.

He went back to his room with some apprehension, expecting to see more horrible visions or be met with worse dreams, but the images stayed gone, that night, the immediacy of the scene already fading in his mind. Sleep came, in the end, and it was silent.

* * *

The watery sun struggled to the sky the next morning and Merlin woke, some of the jagged edges left the previous night already smoothed by sleep.

He made his way to the kitchens and was surprised to find Arthur and Gwen already there, then a bit less surprised as he noticed the guilty looks on their faces as he entered

“Merlin! We were just –”

_Talking about me_ , he thought grimly.

“Trying to drink all the tea without me?” he said instead, shoving down the sinking feeling in favour of sitting down and helping himself.

Gwen laughed awkwardly, and after a brief stutter, the rhythm of their meals together resumed until it was done and they sat back, sated. Gwen fiddled with her sleeve.

“Merlin,” she started. He was expecting this.

“I promise I’m fine, Gwen,” he said gently. She looked a little guilty again, and he wondered just how well she thought she was hiding anything. “I haven’t been sleeping, and I suppose the combination of that and the wine just affected me, is all.” She looked doubtful, so he sighed and continued.

“I slept right through from when we arrived back at the house, so,” – he spread his hands and missed the tiny frown on Arthur’s face, smoothed away as soon as it appeared – “All better.”

Gwen relaxed a little. “As long as you’re sure,” she said sternly, Arthur nodding beside her, still scrutinising Merlin. Merlin just smiled at her, dredging up an energy he did not feel, and moved to rise, considering the matter closed.

“Well then,” he said. “I’ll be needing my model.”

Arthur sighed heavily and stood.

“Or a different one, perhaps, with a better attitude. And better clothes,” he added, grinning for real at the affronted sound behind him.

* * *

By the time Arthur slouched in, dressed again to the nines and distinctly unhappy about it, Merlin was already deep in work mode and began to order him around impatiently. Arthur made a great variety of grumblings at this, but allowed himself to be manoeuvred back into pose.

Merlin’s eyes were sharp and focused as he began, looking back and forth between the canvas and Arthur. He zoned out, focused only on the way Arthur’s jacket folded at his middle and the reassuring sound of brush on canvas, until he looked up to catch Arthur pulling a face at him.

He looked comically surprised to have been caught, like a guilty schoolboy. He grinned at Merlin, then, uncharacteristically bold, seemed to decide to take advantage of Merlin’s attention and looked him up and down appreciatively in a way that made him shiver.

“Stop that,” Merlin said sharply.

“What?”

“That. Can’t you sit still?” he said, choosing to ignore the look entirely in favour of filing it away for a quiet moment later.

“Can’t I – I sit still! I’ve _been_ sitting still,” Arthur said indignantly.

Merlin scoffed and kept painting. Even for someone generally fidgety, Arthur was especially impatient that morning, searching Merlin’s eyes for something each time their eyes met. He painted in silence for a few minutes.

“You look tired,” Arthur blurted suddenly. Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Did you really sleep, last night?” His hand tightened on the paintbrush.

“Yes,” he said, looking carefully at the stroke he’d just added. He could feel Arthur holding back more, and sighed, looking up to see Arthur frowning slightly, worrying at the skin on his lower lip with his fingers. Arthur wasn’t needling him. Arthur was worried.

Suddenly Merlin felt a little guilty. His vision of Arthur in distress had been just that, a vision, and it had been enough to keep him up half the night, not to mention have him heaving and crying on the beach, which Arthur, in turn, had seen. His hand stilled as he thought about how to word this.

“I’m sorry for scaring you, you know. Last night,” he said finally, moving the brush uselessly in the air above the canvas and fixing his eyes on a blob of paint. He risked a glance up.

“I wasn’t scared,” Arthur said instantly.

Merlin hummed. “You touch your mouth when you’re nervous,” he said unthinkingly.

“Really,” Arthur said flatly, pursing his lips. Merlin felt his irritation rise to meet Arthur’s like always, and he met his eyes in challenge.

“Yes. When you’re embarrassed, you bite at your lips, too. And when you’re angry, you don’t blink.”

Arthur looked at him flatly and blinked, slowly and deliberately. Merlin rolled his eyes and wondered uneasily if he’d made a misstep, and how far wrong.

“Well. Don’t we know everything,” Arthur said, considering him shrewdly.

Merlin shrugged. “I spend a lot of time looking at you. I notice things. Honestly, I wouldn’t like to be in your place,” he added, nodding towards the scene they’d set up. Arthur got a strange look on his face.

“We’re in the same place.”

“What?”

“The exact same place, don’t you – Come here. Come on.” He gestured impatiently for Merlin to stand beside him, abandoning the pose. Merlin sighed and stepped out warily from behind the easel, moving to stand at Arthur’s side.

“Closer,” Arthur insisted, and Merlin stepped closer, until he was inches from Arthur. He looked at him questioningly, but Arthur shook his head and inclined his head at the canvas. “Look.”

Merlin looked at the spot where he’d been standing, perplexed. He felt Arthur’s gaze on the side of his face and willed himself not to move. He kept looking, and Arthur, impatient, leaned in close.

“If you’re looking at me,” he said, voice soft and low. “Who am I looking at?”

Merlin suppressed a shiver at the feel of Arthur’s breath on his skin and looked away, feeling suddenly exposed. He brought a hand up to touch his earlobe, self-conscious. Arthur made a soft noise of triumph.

“When you don’t know what to say, you touch your ears,” he said, in the same way Merlin had just spoken to him. Merlin stopped and dropped his hand back to his side, rubbing his thumb against his forefinger. Arthur’s gaze flickered down, then back up, amused. A hint of his old arrogance was creeping into his tone.

“When you think you’ve revealed too much, you do that with your hands.” Merlin’s breathing hitched.

“And when you feel you’ve lost control, you breathe out through your mouth, just like that.”

Merlin clamped his mouth shut but it was too late. He met Arthur’s eyes, full of defiant amusement. He felt naked and fought the urge to move, to fiddle with his hair or look away, lest he give himself away entirely. Or maybe he already had.

The amusement faded from Arthur’s eyes, leaving only intensity, and Merlin’s breathing sped up as time slowed and they seemed to drift together, half an inch at a time, magnetically drawn, closer and closer until Merlin finally pulled away, turning his head.

He headed back to the easel, heart pounding. Arthur sat back slightly and swallowed. He moved back into position perfectly, without a word, and looked into the distance, the perfect model. Merlin shook his head slightly and picked up his brush, ignoring the slight shake of his hand as he did.

* * *

When the light changed, earlier even than the day before, they stopped for the day. Merlin looked hopefully out the window as he packed away, and Arthur tilted his head questioningly. He nodded, not meeting his eyes.

* * *

It was really too windy to be out. The sky was quickly turning the murky blue of the sea, coating everything in an eerie light as the waves got bigger, spraying them even as they stayed away from the water line.

Arthur climbed up on some wet rocks and looked out, and Merlin followed, grumbling as he picked his way up after him. They watched huge, powerful waves gather and break, the sea becoming something wild and frightening as the wind whipped at their faces. Merlin couldn’t tell if it had started raining or if he was just getting soaked by the waves crashing against the rocks, the water carried in by the wind.

He turned and caught Arthur looking at him and unlike the other times, he didn’t look away for several long seconds. Eventually they clambered back down, Merlin cursing as he almost slipped but Arthur’s hand there, steady on his arm, every time. He helped him down onto the sand and Merlin noted with displeasure that it was definitely raining, and the wind was picking up even more. The house seemed a very long way off.

The wet wind stung Merlin’s eyes and threatened to steal his breath, and he gave up and wrapped his scarf around his lower face, grimacing at the sensation of the damp material. Arthur had pulled ahead, now, further along the beach, and he looked back at Merlin for the barest second before disappearing around a corner into the cliff face.

Merlin followed, blinking against the rain and hands shoved deep in his pockets. He frowned at the gap in the stone where Arthur had gone, then shrugged and followed. It was darker still, in there, a strange dusky light, but as soon as he passed the mouth of the cave the wind and rain fell away to background noise.

He moved forward cautiously, and was surprised to see Arthur waiting for him, just standing, hair damp and colour in his cheeks from the wind.

He walked forwards automatically, the sound of his breath inside the scarf loud in his ears, and drew level with Arthur, whose own breathing had sped up, chest moving up and down. He held himself stiffly, as though barely restraining himself from some great burst of movement. Merlin looked into his eyes.

Arthur moved slowly, jerkily, and lifted his hand to the scarf still covering Merlin’s face. His fingers hovered over the material and Merlin hadn’t realised he was being asked a question until he found himself nodding.

Arthur pulled the scarf down from Merlin’s mouth gently, and moved his hand to the side of Merlin’s neck the way he had that day on the beach. Merlin’s heart was racing, a thousand scenarios flickering through his head, eyes catching on a raindrop on Arthur’s cheek as it rolled to his jaw. He took a breath.

Arthur kissed him.

Soft and tentative at first, the gentle shyness lasted only a moment before his hand tightened behind Merlin’s head and he pulled him closer, pressing his lips to his desperately, frantically.

It was like coming up for air. Frozen still only as long as it took his brain to catch up, he grabbed at Arthur’s arms, clutching at the sodden material of his coat, and kissed back, just as desperately. He pushed Arthur against the wall in two quick steps and Arthur let him, opening his eyes in surprise for a fraction of a second but never pulling away.

Merlin couldn’t tell if the faint taste of salt the rain hadn’t managed to wash away was from his lips or Arthur’s and he didn’t care at all, as Arthur tilted his face slightly and slid a tongue along Merlin’s teeth until he opened his mouth and let him in.

They broke apart, panting, Arthur’s hand sliding from Merlin’s neck down to his shoulder and then off him, hanging awkwardly in the air. Merlin let go of Arthur’s coat and they stood, still inches apart and breathing fast, looking into each other’s eyes.

Without warning, Arthur pulled away, slipping out from between Merlin and the wall. With a final look at Merlin he walked away, into the rain. Merlin’s mouth hung open and he absently raised a hand to his lips before cursing and following.

Arthur stayed ahead as they hurried back to the house in the pelting rain, which was getting impossibly heavier by the minute.

As soon as they were inside, Arthur barely looked at him as he mumbled something about drying off and practically ran up the stairs. Merlin thought he might have said something nonsensical about painting, himself, but was mostly too dumbfounded to tell.

Slowly, he made his way back to his room and stripped mechanically, peeling off his dripping clothes onto a drying rack and pulling on soft, paint-stained ones. He sat on the bed numbly.

Eventually, he realised the fire wasn’t even lit to dry the clothes and waved a hand, distracted, jumping as it roared to life and looking guiltily at the door.

Had that really – he shook his head. Did Arthur regret it? Why had he run?

He flopped back on the bed miserably, and thought.

A particularly strong gust of wind whistled at the window pane and he sat up slowly. He couldn’t just – he had to know. Even if it hurt, he had to know. He always had. He glanced at the window and judged perhaps a quarter of an hour to have passed since they’d come back.

He got up and moved towards the door before he could change his mind.

* * *

His stomach was in knots as he walked towards Arthur’s room, the house silent except for the odd sheet of rain blown against the windows by the storm.

He was surprised to see the door open, and swallowed down the hope that rose in him at the sight. He approached the threshold and saw Arthur standing stiffly by the fire, still in his wet clothes from the beach, only his coat and shoes discarded to the side. He turned to face Merlin like he’d been waiting for him, face unreadable. Merlin walked over to him and held his breath as he pressed his shoulder against Arthur’s. Arthur was still.

“Did I scare you off?” Merlin said quietly, not daring to look around. Arthur didn’t reply and Merlin took a chance and laid his head on his shoulder, inhaling the residual scent of the beach.

“I am scared,” Arthur said at last, just as quietly. “But not of this.”

He turned his body to face Merlin’s and mirrored him, resting his head between Merlin’s neck and shoulder. Gradually, Merlin brought a hand up to rest on Arthur’s back, between his shoulder blades, clenched in a fist at first and then cautiously flattened. He felt Arthur’s arms encircle his own waist in return and they held each other, revelling in the contact.

“Is it always like this?” Arthur whispered against his neck. Merlin closed his eyes for a moment and pulled back, skimming his hand down Arthur’s arm to take his hand. He looked him in the eye, marvelling at the uncertainty there that had been hidden so well just last week.

“Never,” he promised. Arthur closed his eyes.

“I imagined this,” he said, and Merlin could see what it was for him to admit that. A thrill ran through him, thinking of his own dreams, the early ones where he woke up aching. He thought of every time he’d looked away from Arthur, afraid his eyes would give him away.

“Did you dream of me?”

Arthur gave the minutest shake of his head. “I thought of you.”

And oh, wasn’t that so much better? To know Arthur had been fully awake and aware when he imagined the feel of Merlin’s lips, Merlin’s skin on his, perhaps even as he took himself in hand? He looked up and saw only quiet sincerity in Arthur’s eyes, sincerity and a _want_ , a desire that he suspected he had never allowed himself before.

Arthur lifted a hand again and touched the hem of Merlin’s old shirt before sliding a hand under it to rest on his side, hot like a brand, and it was both too much and not enough and then they were kissing again.

It was slower, this time, but no less desperate. Arthur pulled Merlin closer with the hand still pressed to his back, now, and Merlin went easily, their open lips meeting like they were made for each other.

They stumbled across the room and Merlin’s knees hit the bed frame. Arthur kept moving forward, meaning for them to sit, but Merlin put a hand on Arthur’s chest and shook his head. Arthur looked at him questioningly, then with understanding as Merlin touched the hem of his shirt. He nodded and Merlin pulled the shirt off for him, Arthur bending to kiss him as soon as he was free, shrugging it off his arms and throwing it to the floor.

Merlin took him in, golden in the firelight, and reached out to splay a hand on Arthur’s chest over his heart with something like reverence. Arthur put his hand over Merlin’s and took advantage of the break to indicate that he should take his off too, and it promptly joined the other on the floor.

He looked at Merlin unashamedly, eyes raking up and down his chest and arms. Merlin fought the urge to hide, behind clothes or an easel or anything that would stand between him and the heat of Arthur’s gaze. But Arthur was looking at him with wonder, lingering on his stomach and the slope of his bare shoulders before placing a hand on his hip and pressing lightly backwards.

Merlin went with it and fell back onto the bed as Arthur leant over him to kiss his neck. He brought his own hands up to Arthur’s shoulder blades and closed his eyes as Arthur kissed the hollow at the bottom of his throat before tracing his way down his chest.

He reached the birthmark in the middle of Merlin’s chest, the thin, oval-shaped mark just at the bottom of his sternum and touched it gently, meeting his eyes before scraping his teeth over it. Merlin’s head fell back, his eyes closed, and his hands drifted up to Arthur’s hair, still not fully dry from earlier.

Suddenly Merlin had to kiss him again, had to taste his own skin, his own heartbeat on Arthur’s lips.

“Get up here,” he said, cupping Arthur’s cheek and pulling him towards him. Arthur obliged, moving until their bodies slotted together and allowing himself to be pulled in for a searing kiss. They turned on their sides, both touching all the skin they could reach with their free hand, sliding over ribs and strong muscle and the fine hair on their stomachs.

Without discussion they parted to wriggle out of their trousers, carelessly flung to the side as soon as they were free. Merlin was so distracted by the sight of Arthur, he forgot to be embarrassed. He let his eyes roam shamelessly over him before reaching out to touch, eyes snapping up at the strangled noise Arthur made in response.

Arthur pressed closer still until they were touching all over, their cocks pressed between them, impossibly hard and hot, and gasped as they touched, too. Merlin couldn’t suppress a smile, and in the back of his mind opened an entire library, to be filled with the sounds he was going to pull from that beautiful mouth, already pink and swollen.

Arthur’s pupils were wide, the blue of his irises narrower than ever as he took tiny, trembling breaths. Merlin held eye contact as he raised his left hand to his face and slowly licked his palm, delighting in the glazed look in Arthur’s eyes and the stutter of his breath, which promptly stopped as Merlin reached down to wrap his hand around him. He looked at Merlin, wide eyed but trusting, and Merlin closed the final distance with a kiss.

Behind them, the fire slowly burned to embers as the rain beat unnoticed against the glass.

* * *

Later, when they had to admit they were too tired to continue, they cleaned up as best they could and fell asleep together in the dark. Their eyes were drifting shut and Arthur shifted beside Merlin and made a contented sound that curled up inside Merlin’s heart. He reached for Merlin’s hand and brought it absentmindedly to his lips, kissing his bruised knuckles softly. Merlin fell asleep with an impossible warmth blooming in his chest and his hand in Arthur’s.

* * *

But still he dreamt, and even with a head and a heart so full of him, it wasn’t Arthur’s death he saw this time.

* * *

_23 Years Ago, Modern-Day Glastonbury Tor_

_Merlin’s feet slipped in the mud again and he swore, going down hard on one knee before righting himself and continuing up the hill until he reached the tower at the top._

_Rain ran down his face in rivulets. He dumped his package on the ground beside him and sank to his knees, reaching into the earth with his magic to feel the ley lines thrum, weaker now, but still there. He breathed a little easier for feeling the magic and looked up at the dark sky through the roofless tower, blinking but making no move to shield his face from the weather._

_He hadn’t been here in a long time. The last vestiges of the lake had long since dried, and a small town thrived at the foot of the former isle, but those changes didn’t jar anymore. In the beginning, he had come here regularly, looking for a hint of Arthur, on occasion offering desperate bargains for his life to old gods that no longer heeded him._

_His last visit had been a few hundred years ago, now, during a particularly long spell of melancholy when he had just laid down in the woods and stayed there for a few months straight, spending much of it floating in the magic of the ley lines and ignoring his physical body and the outside world entirely._

_When he’d woken up, much of the structure that had topped the hill when he arrive had been destroyed, leaving only the tower, and shaken to have lost so much time, he had moved on, avoiding the area with a kind of superstition ever since._

_He had never brought anyone here, not in all his lives, but he found himself wishing he weren’t alone for this, now, at the end. Like all men, he supposed, however irrationally and however faded his memory of her, he found himself wishing for his mother._

_He sat back on his haunches and unwrapped the only thing he’d brought with him, decades in the finding. Another immortal blade. Aithusa had resolutely refused to make another even when he’d found her after the battle, and he had been younger then, more reluctant to impose his will._

_He hadn’t been able to sense her for years, now._

_At first, he had been driven by a compulsive desire to be prepared for the next great battle, the next evil that would surely awaken Arthur. Over time, however, the thought had trickled into his mind and settled like damp that, in theory, a blade such as Excalibur could kill him, too. And so here he was._

_After so many years, so many lives laid over each other like gossamer until the weight of them became opaque and heavy. So much joy, more than any mortal man had a right to. So many loves, and so many corresponding sharp, aching moments of loss. Merlin had waited enough._

_He had been like this before, but he’d been younger, and time had weighed on him, of course it had, but nothing like the way it did now. Back then, hope and faith in Arthur’s return had been more than a memory._

_The last handful of years, most of this most recent life, had slowed to a torturous crawl, and for the first time, Merlin had made no effort to forge a new identity, to find a new home and new friends and the moments of light that made it seem almost worth it, sometimes._

_Instead, he had waited for each day to end, and searched the continent for the weapon that lay in front of him now, gleaming in the rain. A shorter blade than Excalibur, to be sure, and curved and forged in the style of the time and place it had been made._

_His hand shook as he reached for the hilt, but he was sure, this time. An end. An end after centuries of new and painful beginnings and so much loss he wondered each time if he could stand another._

_He held the blade in front of him and touched its point to his chest, just beneath his breastbone, and even if he shouldn’t have been able to feel it in the rain, he felt the cold of the metal and the first sting as it touched his flesh._

_He took a deep breath. The air crackled, and thunder rolled in the distance. He closed his eyes._

_“Emrys.”_

_His eyes flew open and he almost let out a hysterical laugh. Decades, or centuries, it had been, since someone had spoken into his head in the manner of the druids. Magic had abandoned him and suddenly it came here, now, at this moment? No._

_As he adjusted his grip on the hilt, lightning flashed nearby and he felt the prickle of eyes on him from behind. Someone was there, where they shouldn’t have been in the middle of a night like this, especially since Merlin had checked so thoroughly before setting off. And they had appeared so suddenly… he reached out with his magic and recoiled at the raw, ancient equivalent standing behind him._

_A woman walked into view and he kept his eyes on the sword. The goddess, magic herself, here? For him?_

_“Emrys, you mustn’t,” she said, speaking aloud now and perfectly audible over the rain._

_The hair stood up on the back of Merlin’s neck. All those centuries and he had never forgotten the sound of that voice. He closed his eyes against the tears that threatened and raised his head to see the goddess in the shape of his mother._

_“That’s low,” he said, fighting to keep his voice even around the lump in his throat. Her eyes were sad._

_“You cannot do this, Emrys,” she repeated, and Merlin felt the first stirrings of anger. To abandon him all those years and come now, wearing the face of his mother, whose hand he had held as she died, lifetimes ago?_

_He looked at the goddess and his chest ached at the sight of the details that had slipped through his fingers over the years; the curve of her eyebrow and the shape of her mouth. Her eyes were sad, so sad, and he hesitated. But it wasn’t her, and the fury rose in him again._

_He met her eyes and plunged the blade into his chest, gasping._

_Warm blood started to flow at once but the goddess did not move, still and perfect like a statue. He pulled the blade out with a groan and it clattered to the ground. He watched the rain start to fall on the blood-stained metal with detached interest._

_His breath caught in his throat, abruptly, and he coughed, tasting blood on the back of his tongue. He listed sideways, catching himself on one hand. His magic sparked desperately inside him, and failed, for the first time, to ignite._

_The lady simply watched, sorrowful and silent. He smiled up at her grimly, blood on his teeth._

_“She never called me that,” he said, panting. He fought to stay upright and lost, collapsing onto his side as the blood continued to flow. “You were too late,” he said as the lady moved at last to kneel at his side. “You cannot stop this.”_

_“No,” she agreed. “Not this mortal death you have conspired to inflict on yourself, not now. But I am bound to save your magic, your essence. You cannot opt out of your destiny, Emrys.”_

_Merlin coughed again and it turned into a moan as he flopped onto his back, taking short, shallow breaths. He didn’t have much longer, numbness creeping in at the edges already._

_“Watch me,” he spat, closing his eyes against a fresh wave of pain. She said nothing. The pain began to ebb again, a bone-deep tiredness replacing it, a weakness in his entire body. “I’ve waited for my destiny long enough. I’ve had enough. I’ve lived enough. And what for? No one was ever supposed to live this long. I’ve been alone,” he said, his voice breaking on the word and tears mixing with the rain. “All this time.”_

_“Not always,” the lady said softly, and Merlin pushed away the guilt that rose in him at the reminder that he had been happy, many times. The memories felt like someone else’s, from here._

_“Always in the end,” he said. “I just want to stop.”_

_“You cannot,” she said, her tone willing him to understand. “You may begin again, you may even forget, but even a blade such as this cannot conquer divine intercession.”_

_“Then don’t intercede. Let me go. I want this,” he said, words slurring._

_“It’s not about what you want. Your time is not yet done. He comes, still. It has already begun, in some ways.”_

_A spark of the old hope lit in him and guttered out like a flame in the wind. He shook his head._

_“He’s not coming. It’s been too long. I cannot wait forever, not like this.”_

_A strange look flitted over the lady’s face. “It will not be like this, then. But your essence cannot truly leave this world, its destiny unfulfilled. I am sorry, Emrys. It may only rest, and forget, and wait.”_

_“…enough,” Merlin insisted weakly, the energy for a full sentence escaping him, rising from him like mist._

_“Not yet,” she said sadly, and rose, looking up. Merlin followed her gaze with a vision filled with spots and saw lightning fork across the sky._

_He revelled in the thought of finally seeing something for the last time and stared until the bright after-image faded. Pain and cold and wet, for the last time. This breath, these lungs expanding for the last time, this heart lying still, after all these years._

_He felt his body slow, his breaths growing less frequent. He was dying. The lady was wrong. Merlin had survived a lot, but not this. His magic was silent. It was over._

_His life had simply been too long for it to flash before his eyes, but his last thought of that one was a confused jumble of Arthur’s smile, the sun on his face and the sensation of flying, as it had been that first time on Kilgharrah, Camelot appearing in the distance._

_“We will meet again, Emrys,” the lady whispered, kneeling again to trace a hand down his chest to the wound. She sighed, and dug her fingers in, and Merlin gasped and slipped away, his old, old body still at last._

* * *

_Hundreds of miles away, a baby was born, with a shock of black hair and eyes that might have flashed gold in the candlelight, for a moment. He was handed to his mother and she cried._

_“What’s he to be called, my love?”_

_“Merlin.”_

* * *

Merlin woke with the taste of his own blood in his mouth, chest heaving and just barely avoiding letting out a yell. He bit his tongue and swiped at his damp eyes with shaking hands. Arthur was a warm weight beside him, soft and young in sleep and none the wiser.

Merlin sat up carefully, reaching down to the floor reflexively for his paper and pencils before he remembered he wasn’t in his own room. The image of the tower and the lady haunted him, the memory of her strange, terrifying aura of power and the sound of rain on the bloody metal of the blade. He got up quietly and went to the door, pausing to look back at Arthur, still asleep, before hurrying to his room.

It was colder, there, and he brought his drawing supplies back to Arthur’s and lit a candle. He sat on the floor and drew feverishly, the hill and the tower, the lady and the weapon, the view looking up at the sky. After almost an hour, he sat back, his hand aching but his head quieter.

He stared at the drawings, which, like the others, seemed to have come from somewhere else as soon as he was done. He brushed a hand over the image of the blade and shivered, other hand rising unconsciously to rub at his chest, where the birthmark was. He had felt himself _die_. And the lady – he hadn’t dreamt of his mother in years.

“M’lin?” came Arthur’s sleepy voice from the bed. He poked his head up, frowning blearily and perplexed to see Merlin on the floor. “…Doing?” he mumbled.

“Drawing,” Merlin said. He stood and climbed back in beside Arthur, who grumbled at the chill of his skin but pulled him closer.

“Bloody artists,” he sighed, already drifting back to sleep, a hand thrown across Merlin’s chest.

Merlin watched him until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If anyone didn’t wanna read the dream** – 23 years before this story, immortal/thousand year old Merlin got Big Depressed and managed to ‘kill’ himself so thoroughly he ended up coming back as the Merlin of this story. The goddess showed up while he did it like "sorry no ://" but he thought he was succeeding. He has been reborn without his memories. He does not fully remember rn! Proximity to Arthur is just making stuff break through, and he just relived the suicide in a dream without all the context of his previous (long) life. 
> 
> RE: film scenes – the scene with noticing the little habits/‘who am I looking at’ is [ here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YKTpig51ajI&ab_channel=Marina), the kiss in the cave is [ here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KlysT4aicMs&ab_channel=Meg), and the second kiss in the house differs from the [ film version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tUnJY_PDkWI&ab_channel=%CA%8F%E1%B4%9C%E1%B4%A2%E1%B4%9C%E1%B4%8D%E1%B4%87%C9%AA) slightly bc I couldn’t bring myself to steal the absolutely RAW line "Do all lovers feel they’re inventing something?" bc I haven’t recovered from hearing it the first time :)
> 
> Anyway quotes etc:  
> \- “This presence of absence I have tried and tried not to be.” (Bob Hicok, [‘A Country Mapped With Invisible Ink’](https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=YbOr7CFliigC&pg=PT34&source=gbs_toc_r&cad=3#v=onepage&q&f=false))  
> \- “You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for.” (Richard Siken, [‘You are Jeff’](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/17/you-are-jeff-crush-by-richard-siken/)) [look i understand that siken and this one are fanfiction cliche #1. let me live]  
> \- ['Where does such tenderness come from?'](https://ruverses.com/marina-tsvetaeva/from-where-is-this-tenderness-coming/3515/) by Marina Tsvetaeva  
> \- “The role of the artist is exactly the same as the role of the lover. If I love you, I have to make you conscious of the things you don’t see.” (James Baldwin)  
> \- “Did you ever feel colored-in when a boy found you with his mouth?” (Ocean Vuong, _On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous_ )  
> \- “What were you before you met me?" / "I think I was drowning." / "And what are you now?" / "Water.” (Ocean Vuong, _On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous_ )
> 
> Up next time: a slow morning, romantic poetry, an argument, a departure, nudes, and memories! Also probably a rating bump, for sexy reasons. Thank you for reading, and for sticking it out uhh... 34k before they kissed, I hate myself. Sorry about that, but we got there in the end. Please let me know what you thought!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll just let you read it, lol, and it's a few hours later than usual because editing was Not Happening before a few hours ago. Note the following, please:  
> 
> 
> **Content note for NSFW: I didn't think it was enough to change the rating, considering what a small percentage of the whole thing it is, but there is sex described in this chapter. This is me flagging that.**
> 
>   
> Enjoy!

Merlin woke slowly, the soft sound of the distant sea and Arthur’s breathing almost threatening to pull him under again. He wondered at how quickly he could grow used to such sounds, and indeed (a traitorous little voice in his head added) at how he was supposed to leave them. He turned his head and opened his eyes, intending to look out the window, and immediately startled to see Arthur’s face so close to his own. Arthur shook with laughter, and Merlin pinched him. Hard.

“Morning,” Arthur whispered. Merlin’s heart did something silly as Arthur’s smile turned from teasing to sweet, and he was struck with an urge to touch him again, to check it was all real. He leaned in for a kiss, feeling like a giddy teenager. It was a slow, chaste press of the lips, and he felt Arthur’s smile against his own.

“Morning.” He looked at Arthur another few moments, noting the subtle differences in the colour of his eyes in the light. He wanted to catalogue every possible variation. He looked past Arthur, out the window, and noticed the sun was a lot further up than he’d thought. He made a frustrated noise. “We should really get up.”

“Interesting proposition. But upon careful consideration, denied.”

“Do I have to remind you your father will have my head if I don’t finish this painting?”

“Please don’t bring my father up in bed,” Arthur said calmly, making the saddest possible face even as the corners of his lips twitched. Merlin realised with only a little unease that saying no to Arthur was going to be a problem.

He relented. “Five more minutes. But it’s well past daybreak, we really have to get up soon.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, then paused, looking away and chewing nervously at his lip. Merlin frowned at him. He stared resolutely at the ceiling and cleared his throat before starting to speak.

“‘Tis true, ‘tis day, what though it be? / O wilt thou therefore rise from me? / Why should we rise because ‘tis light? / Did we lie down because ‘twas night?” The colour rose in Arthur’s cheeks as he finished, voice tight. “Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither, / Should in despite of light keep us together.”

Arthur was bright red and still not looking at him. Merlin stared at him. People so rarely surprised him. He had spent too much time watching how they worked for that. But here he was, after days watching Arthur more closely than he’d ever watched anyone, and there was still so much he wasn’t expecting.

“Arthur Pendragon, what was that?”

Arthur turned his burning face into the pillow. “John Donne,” he said, muffled. “Heathen,” he added without heat. Merlin laughed delightedly.

“Screw you,” he said cheerfully. “Poetry! A poet in bed with me, and I didn’t even know it.”

“Just quoting,” Arthur mumbled.

Merlin kissed him on the cheek, fighting a smile, which dimmed as his brain woke up just enough to remember both his dream and the fact it was his last full day at Pendragon House. “That’s all very well, but we really do have to get up. Your bloody father, why does he have to come back tomorrow?” he said irritably.

Arthur eyed him warily. “You’re in an odd mood this morning.”

Merlin bit his tongue against saying he would be too, if he had dreamt of his own suicide, but it was a near thing. Instead, he changed direction, and looked Arthur up and down suggestively.

“Maybe I’m tired from last night,” he tried, but Arthur just gave a little frown, and he shrugged. “Sorry,” he said, more quietly, and kissed him sweetly, pressing a hand to his chest. Arthur relaxed a little. “Got any more poetry about how we should stay in bed?”

Arthur went pink again immediately. “I don’t – I didn’t –”

Merlin tried and failed not to find it adorable, and unbidden, plans for new and exciting ways to make Arthur this flustered rose in his mind. He smiled and decided to save Arthur from himself by putting a finger over his lips. “I was only teasing you, Arthur,” he said gently.

“No, I wish I could –”

“Arthur, I don’t need the pretty words. I know how you feel,” he said, fluttering his eyelashes and shooting him a teasing grin, but Arthur still looked upset.

“You don’t,” he said quietly. Merlin didn’t know what to say, so he kissed him again.

* * *

Eventually, they both had to admit it was time to get up, and Merlin gathered up his things to leave Arthur to get dressed. With regret.

“Can’t I stay for this part?”

“Merlin, you’ve just seen it all. Go set up; you’re the one who insisted we get up.”

Merlin went, as slowly as possible, and started setting up for the last portrait session. In the quiet, and without Arthur there, the dream started to weigh on him again. His hand rose unconsciously to his chest, where he had felt – dreamt – the blade going through. He swallowed, and turned around, only to jump at the sight of Arthur in the doorway, raising his eyebrows.

“Sit,” he said, rattled, pointing at the scene they’d set up. “The light is just right, come on.” Arthur looked at him shrewdly before pushing himself off the doorframe and sitting in place, where he sat patiently for all of ten minutes before he started fidgeting and sighing pointedly.

“Arthur.”

“Merlin.”

“Oh, what is it, then?” Merlin asked resignedly.

“I’m hungry.”

“That’s a shame.”

“We didn’t have breakfast.”

“Observant.”

“We should have breakfast.”

“I agree.”

“You do?”

“After we finish.”

Arthur groaned. “I’ll be right back, I’ll just go grab something.”

“Can’t you wait for _anything_?” Merlin said, irritated. Arthur looked a little hurt. Merlin rolled his eyes, feeling guilty, and looked around the room. His eyes landed on an apple he’d brought back a day or two before, and he thought wistfully about throwing it at him, but forced himself to walk over, bowing theatrically and holding it out.

“My lord,” he said, already turning back as Arthur grinned and took a bite, only to be stopped by a hand on his forearm.

“God, you’re wound awfully tight,” Arthur said with a frown, swallowing the bite. “You should relax, you risk painting me ugly,” he added, eyes serious but lips twitching upward.

“I am but a lowly painter, my lord, I may only capture what’s already there,” Merlin said sadly.

Arthur narrowed his eyes and pulled him in close, lips suddenly on the underside of Merlin’s jaw. Merlin inhaled sharply and closed his eyes and Arthur smiled against his neck.

“Am I so hideous, then, Mr Emrys?” he whispered.

“Oh, you bastard, you know perfectly well you’re beautiful,” Merlin said, amused, bringing a hand up to his hair. He paused, feeling Arthur’s face heat against his skin. “Arthur,” he said, but Arthur just mumbled something and kept kissing his neck.

Merlin sighed into the feeling of his lips, then remembered his initial train of thought and cupped Arthur’s face, bringing him up to eye level. “You are,” he said, and Arthur rolled his eyes, uncomfortable. “Like a painting come to life,” Merlin insisted, still smiling, still mostly teasing. He tilted his head, noting the way Arthur’s gaze darted away and downwards. His tone turned serious. “Years of studying art, and I’ve never seen anything like you.” He ran his thumb along Arthur’s jaw, which clenched under his touch and Arthur let out a heavy breath and reached for his hand.

“You can’t just - _say_ things like that,” Arthur said, frustrated. “How can you just – I can write an essay on metaphysics, but speech – speech escapes me. I can’t – I can’t find the words for you,” he finished quietly.

“So write me a poem someday,” Merlin said. “I don’t care, Arthur.” He threaded his fingers in his hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Arthur looked up at him, frustration and embarrassment giving way to a thoughtful and determined look.

Merlin raised an eyebrow, then made an interested noise as Arthur stood and pulled Merlin’s hips tight to his own and kissed him, deep and passionate.

“…the painting –” he tried weakly, between kisses, hands skimming down Arthur’s back to his arse apparently of their own accord. The canvas was seeming less interesting by the second.

“Plenty of time,” Arthur murmured. Merlin looked half-heartedly back to the painting, but Arthur evidently caught the moment he gave in, and grinned. He barely had a second to think before strong arms encircled him and Arthur lifted him, moving them to the bed in a few short steps.

Arthur set him down and looked at him in challenge. Merlin leaned back on his elbows and tried very hard to ignore the rush of blood southward that had accompanied the move. Arthur leaned over him for a kiss, smirking like he knew perfectly well the effect he had. He half-climbed onto the bed to brace himself over Merlin.

“Heavier than you look,” Arthur said lightly, and Merlin flicked him in the arm, then knocked at his elbow until he fell on top of him in a tangle of limbs. Merlin pretended to wheeze.

“Exactly as heavy as you look,” he said, but Arthur just laughed and kissed him, tasting faintly of the since-forgotten apple.

Merlin pushed himself up and they both shifted, legs tangling as they sat facing each other. He put a hand gently on the back of Arthur’s neck and Arthur’s drifted to his waist. They kissed slowly, languorously, time stretching out like the thread of saliva between their lips as they parted. The kisses deepened, and Merlin found himself halfway onto Arthur’s lap. Both were hard by the time Arthur grew bold enough to brush his hand against the front of Merlin’s trousers, eliciting a short gasp. Merlin kissed him harder in response but Arthur drew back, a hand on his wrist.

“Can I…” he hesitated, looking down.

Surprised, Merlin laughed, a little high pitched. “You can do whatever you want,” he said. “And only what you want,” he added seriously. Arthur smiled nervously and motioned for Merlin to take off his trousers, which he did, sitting back on the bed comfortably. Arthur looked.

“I’ve never –” he started, but Merlin smiled.

“All your education, I’m sure you can figure it out,” he teased softly. “Look, I’ll sit on the side here and you kneel on the floor, alright?” He shifted and lay back, propped up on his elbows. Arthur climbed off the bed and dropped to his knees with a shaky exhale.

He kissed Merlin’s knee, softly, and Merlin thought, nonsensically, that no one had ever kissed him there before. He worked his way up to Merlin’s inner thigh and the join of his hips. He could feel Arthur’s breath on him and willed himself to stay still. Finally, carefully, Arthur wrapped his hand around him and looked up, their eyes meeting before he lowered his head and took him into his mouth.

Merlin tensed immediately and bit back a groan as Arthur adjusted his grip and began to move. After a few hesitant seconds, Arthur began to find his rhythm, and inexperience was eclipsed by enthusiasm even as it remained a little sloppy. Merlin let his hand drift down to Arthur’s hair and rest there, accidentally tightening his grip as Arthur took him deeper. He could feel his breathing changing, the heat building in him.

“Arthur, Arthur, wait,” he said, and Arthur pulled off immediately, flushed and lips wet, and Merlin wanted to frame him like that and look at it every day of his life. He sat up, gently, and Arthur sat back. “I won’t last,” he said, by way of explanation, and Arthur looked disappointed. Naturally, Merlin had to pull him back onto the bed for a kiss, tasting himself in his mouth as the edge of orgasm retreated again.

He reached down to cup Arthur through the material and Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut.

“It seems unfair that I’m the only one undressed,” Merlin said lightly, and Arthur stood instantly and pulled his shirt off before undoing his trousers with trembling hands. Merlin snorted and discarded his shirt, too, and they lay down again, pressing short, sweet kisses on all the skin they could reach.

Arthur paused, as if he were going to say something, then kept going, mouthing at Merlin’s collarbone, who willed himself into coherent thought by curiosity alone.

“What is it?” he said.

Arthur hesitated. “Have you ever –” He broke off, swallowing. “You know –” and Merlin thought he might, given where all this was going.

“Broken the king’s decency laws?” he said, amused, and Arthur let out a short laugh, still nervous. “Yes, I’m afraid so. You’re in bed with a criminal.”

Arthur licked his lips. “Would you…to me?” he said uncertainly, and Merlin tried not to show his surprise, or the rush the thought sent through him.

“You want me to –”

“Yes.”

Merlin kissed him gently. “We’ll go slowly,” he said. “But we might need –”

Arthur was already nodding, determination replacing apprehension on his face. “I’ve got – in my room.”

Merlin nodded as Arthur stood, admiring him. Arthur pulled on Merlin’s dressing gown and slipped out. Merlin watched the doorway for a moment before standing and replacing the paintbrush from where he’d abandoned it earlier.

He met Arthur with a smile as he returned, pausing in the doorway to look at Merlin. He settled against the wall pointedly to watch and Merlin rolled his eyes, gesturing at the bed.

“Oh, come here.”

Arthur grinned and locked the door, casting the dressing gown and something else he was holding aside and offering up a bottle of oil. Merlin pushed at his chest lightly until he lay back on the bed and Merlin moved down his body to part his legs slightly. Arthur’s cock twitched,

“You’re sure?” he said again, and Arthur nodded.

Merlin dipped a finger in the oil and reached between Arthur’s legs, holding eye contact as he brushed against and then pushed a fingertip into him with minimal resistance. He stilled for a second, waiting for Arthur’s breathing to steady before pushing in and out gently, rewarded with a pleasant little noise from the back of Arthur’s throat.

“More,” he breathed and Merlin obliged, withdrawing to add more oil before cautiously adding a second finger and starting to move. Arthur stiffened and Merlin shifted, changing angles until his face was at Arthur’s hip, stubble scraping along the soft skin. He paused for a moment while Arthur breathed, then pressed his fingers deeper and took him into his mouth in the same moment.

Arthur cried out and jerked up, and Merlin pulled back for a second while he settled, muttering an apology. Merlin lowered his head again and hummed in acknowledgement around him. Arthur cursed, and the sound of it in his posh, perfect accent went straight onto Merlin’s list of things to be repeated.

He resumed his movement, timing the motion of his fingers with that of his head, crooking them experimentally and changing the angle until –

“ _Jesus_ ,” Arthur said, sounding wrecked, and Merlin took that as his cue to keep up the pace, sucking and swirling his tongue and moving his hand until Arthur cried out as he came in his mouth. He flopped back, boneless and flushed, and Merlin crawled up beside him to kiss him and was welcomed lazily.

“I know it’s not quite all the –” he started, voice a little raspy.

“Next time,” Arthur said faintly and Merlin smiled, propping himself up to look at him. He was positively glowing, hair mussed and breathing only just returning to normal. Merlin traced a pattern on his chest with his finger.

“Christ, how are you real? Did I dream you?” Merlin murmured, then promptly tried to hide his flinch at his own poor choice of words. Arthur didn’t notice, busy as he was regaining his focus enough to reach down to their waists. He tilted his face until his lips just barely brushed against Merlin’s cheek.

“Does this feel real?” he whispered, and ran his thumb over the tip of Merlin’s cock, pulling an embarrassing little noise from his lips as his hips twitched. Arthur looked incredibly pleased with himself and began to move his hand in earnest as he licked into Merlin’s mouth. Merlin’s breathing stuttered and it wasn’t long before he came, crying out against Arthur’s lips.

He lay, dazed, for a moment, before rolling out of bed against Arthur’s protests, returning with a damp cloth he’d set aside for painting and cleaning them both up gently. He let himself be drawn back against Arthur’s chest where he sat against the headboard.

He could hear his heartbeat, and Arthur settled a hand on his chest in return. Merlin thought he could melt into the strong, steady heat of him. Arthur dropped a kiss on his head and breathed in Merlin’s hair.

Just as he felt Arthur’s breathing change and wondered what it was, Arthur tapped him to sit up so he could lean over and reach down to the floor for something. He sat back and let Merlin settle, holding up a tattered book. Merlin twisted his head and looked back at him, questioning, but Arthur looked terribly embarrassed and shook his head.

“I thought – I thought since I can’t – since I say it badly, that I might find someone who could say it better,” he said quietly and opened the book. Merlin caught a glimpse of the word Shakespeare on the title page before Arthur flipped to one he had marked. He caught Arthur’s other wrist and pulled it to his lips, pressing a kiss to his pulse point.

“Romantic prat,” he said warmly. As adorable as it was, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes to spare him further mortification.

Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly and began to read, the measured syllables falling smoothly from his lips:

_“As an unperfect actor on the stage,_  
_Who with his fear is put beside his part,_  
_Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,_  
_Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;_  
_So I, for fear of trust, forget to say_  
_The perfect ceremony of love's rite,_  
_And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,_  
_O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might._  
_O! let my looks be then the eloquence_  
_And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,_  
_Who plead for love, and look for recompense,_  
_More than that tongue that more hath more express'd._  
_O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:_  
_To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.”_

Merlin kept his eyes closed until he was utterly certain he could control himself, that he was not, in fact, about to just let out a yell, or cry, or something. Arthur’s heartbeat was fast against his ear. He opened his eyes and tried for a light tone.

“Who’s that, then?” he said, waiting to see if it would land.

“Who’s – Shakespeare, Merlin. Please tell me you know –”

Merlin laughed. “Oh, you can’t help yourself, can you?” He lifted Arthur’s hand again and kissed it. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

They lay like that, Arthur absently playing with Merlin’s hair as the light slanted through the windows and lit tiny motes of dust, floating aimlessly and never seeming to land. Merlin flipped distractedly through the book, noting with fondness the marked pages and pencil underlines here and there.

He closed it and took a breath. Arthur groaned. “Not this again.”

Merlin hit him lightly with the book. “If by this, you mean the job I am being employed to do, the job that I already ruined once on purpose, narrowly escaping with my life and career, then yes, this again.” He could tell Arthur was rolling his eyes and elbowed him. “Come on, up, I need to finish your face.”

“Does that mean I don’t have to wear the clothes?” Arthur said hopefully.

“Fine. Just - wear something, or we won’t get anything done.” He sat up abruptly, pulling out of Arthur’s arms and reaching to pull his shirt back on. He stood and stepped back into his trousers, acutely aware of Arthur’s eyes on him. He turned, finished rolling his sleeves up and put his hands on his hips. Arthur looked at him innocently.

“Up, Pendragon.”

* * *

Arthur sat still, poised, his hands clasped and his back straight despite how long he’d been sitting there. The image of a perfect model. Except for the way his lips kept twitching every time he made eye contact with Merlin. Merlin sighed.

“You really are the most distracting man I’ve ever met, stop looking at me like that.” Arthur broke and grinned and Merlin couldn’t fight a smile of his own. “Fine, I’ve looked at your face for long enough, go entertain yourself while I finish up.”

“Can I stay?”

“If you’re quiet.”

Arthur fetched a different book from his room and sat on the bed, half reading and half – if all the times Merlin caught him were any indication – staring at Merlin as he painted.

Merlin valiantly did not tease him for it, reasoning that he himself was trying not to be caught making a miniature picture he fully intended to take with him.

The portrait was done, and miniature close to it, when the light started to change and Arthur rose, stretching, and came to stand behind Merlin, resting his chin on his shoulder and looping his arms around his waist as he examined the canvas.

“Much better.”

“Thank you so much,” Merlin said drily.

“It wasn’t me who destroyed the last one.”

“No, it is better, you’re right.” Merlin looked at it and felt strangely sad. It was somehow worse, that it was right, this one. He knew his mind was filling in gaps that weren’t there, but he couldn’t look at the painting without seeing the glint in Arthur’s eyes before he kissed him, or the shape his mouth would take when he smiled. “I would destroy this one too,” he said, too bold and too honest, suddenly, regretting it even as it left his mouth.

“Why?” Arthur said carefully.

Merlin’s heart beat faster. He knew the answer, and he had half-shoved it away before his new instinct to be honest with Arthur won out. “It’s – It’s like I’m giving you away. To someone else.” Arthur stiffened and pulled away and he knew he’d said too much. “Never mind, I’m sorry, I –”

“Merlin do you – do you think I want this?” Arthur said, frustrated.

“No, I know, Arthur, it was stupid, I –”

“Then you think it’s my fault for going along with it? That I’m a coward?” he said, face hard.

“I didn’t mean to bring it up, I’m sorry.”

“What would you have me do?” Arthur said more quietly. “Resist? Refuse? Run away like Morgana?” His lips trembled. “Would you – would you ask me to?”

More than he’d ever wanted to say yes to anything, Merlin wanted to say yes, to tell Arthur to pack their bags there and then and leave it all behind. But he swallowed it down. This, what they’d been doing, it wasn’t Arthur’s life. It never could be. He knew that, he did.

Arthur, for his part, looked so desperate that Merlin wondered if he wanted him to say yes, too. But the logical part of his mind knew it had never been about what they wanted, not for any longer than this handful of days.

Arthur had a life waiting for him. Not one he had chosen, but one he had been born and raised for. And Merlin knew him, knew that he would be a kind husband to anyone, and a good father, someday. The lump in his throat grew, and he knew the only answer he could give.

“No,” he said, voice breaking a little. “I would not.”

Arthur scoffed, a cracked little noise, and turned to leave, his hand on the doorknob when Merlin broke and closed the distance between them, pulling him back around to take Arthur’s face in his hands. There were tears in his own eyes, now, and Arthur’s were immeasurably sad.

“I’m sorry,” he said thickly. He pressed his forehead to Arthur’s, feeling his short, shaking breaths against his skin.

Arthur sighed, the fight going out of him, and brought an arm to Merlin’s waist. “Me too.”

Merlin swiped at his face with his sleeve and Arthur coughed awkwardly as they parted. Both took a deep breath.

“Dinner?” Arthur said at last, holding out a hand. Merlin nodded and took it.

* * *

They found Gwen on the way, who had been cleaning all day with a frankly frightening intensity, and they ate together. Gwen looked tired, but not too tired to spend the meal shooting inordinately amused glances at the way their arms pressed together on the table, and giving Merlin significant looks when Arthur wasn’t looking. He made faces at her in response.

She turned serious as they finished and Merlin felt an inexplicable feeling of dread. “I have to tell you both something,” she said. Arthur sat up straighter and Merlin deliberately relaxed his posture. They waited.

“I’m leaving. Tonight.” Shock must have registered on their faces as she rushed to continue. “My contract is up at this time of year anyway, and I’ve written your father a letter and found him a replacement, if he wants her. But my brother is picking me up later.”

“Where?” Merlin said, stunned. Gwen bit her lip and looked guiltily at Arthur.

“Morgana.”

Arthur let out a long exhale and leaned back in his chair. “How long?” he said, and when Gwen tried to respond, he clarified. “How long have you known where she is?”

“Weeks,” she said. “She wrote to me. She begged me not to tell anyone, and I cannot betray her trust. You saw how your father reacted when she left.”

There was a long silence and Merlin waited to see how Arthur would respond. He slumped, slightly.

“Is she safe?” he said finally, and Gwen nodded, looking relieved.

“Yes. I swear it.”

Arthur nodded slowly. “Can I -”

“She made me swear to burn her letters and keep nothing of her whereabouts written in this house,” Gwen said in a rush, then hesitated. “But my father will know where I am. You could pass a message through him.”

Merlin reached for a scrap of paper and a pencil as she dictated her father’s name and the village where he lived, sliding it to Arthur when he was done and letting his hand brush against his. Arthur’s fingers hovered over the paper, but didn’t touch it.

“I’m so sorry, Arthur,” Gwen said miserably, but he shook his head.

“I’m glad she has you,” he said. “Just – tell her that I miss her. And that I expect to see her again, to finish our last chess game, someday.”

“I will.”

“On second thought, don’t tell her I miss her. I’ll never hear the end of it,” he added and Gwen laughed a slightly watery laugh as he leaned forward, took her hand and squeezed it.

Even if he had always been just a guest here, and for such a short time, Merlin found himself unexpectedly affected at the prospect of parting from Gwen and smiled at her sadly. They stood and hugged tightly, and it felt so oddly familiar Merlin’s chest ached. He kissed her on the forehead and she looked up at him fondly before they broke apart, both sniffing. She drew herself up, looking suddenly composed and regal. She nodded.

“Take care of her,” Arthur said.

“Take care of him,” Gwen said, smiling and inclining her head towards Merlin. Arthur laughed, surprised.

“I will,” he said seriously, as though he could keep a promise like that, as thought it could last more than one more night.

Gwen left, to finish packing, and soon, they saw her off with her brother, waving until she disappeared into the dark.

* * *

They ended up back in Merlin’s bed as Merlin sat, adding strokes to his miniature, palm sized version of the portrait. Arthur craned his neck to see.

“What’s that for?”

“For me,” Merlin said absently, shading Arthur’s hair. Real Arthur made an amused sound.

“You could probably draw that damned thing in your sleep, now.”

“I like looking at you.”

Arthur smiled, then tilted his head. “Have you ever drawn nude models?”

“Of course. I’ve had some education, they teach us that.”

“Men?”

“Sometimes.”

“Draw me,” Arthur said decisively.

Merlin looked at him. “Fancy ourselves a professional now, do we?”

Arthur shrugged and pushed the sheet down his stomach to his waist. Merlin’s pencil stopped as he tracked its path, gaze sticking on the hair beneath Arthur’s belly-button. His grip tightened on the pencil.

“Oh alright, you’ve twisted my arm,” he said, mouth a little dry.

Arthur grinned. “What should I do?”

“Lie there and look pretty, if you can manage it,” Merlin said, already turning to find more paper and pencils. He sat back down to see that Arthur had rearranged the sheet again so that it truly covered the bare minimum and raised his eyebrows.

“Less is more?” Arthur tried, unexpectedly cocky.

Merlin shook his head and set to sketching, marking out the contours of Arthur’s limbs with a flesh toned pencil. On a second sheet, he paused every so often to test a close up black and white sketch of specific areas, a page of Arthur’s hands, his collarbones, the slight V of his hips as it descended into the sheet.

He went back and forth between the two until he deemed the little portrait finished, pencil-Arthur lounging gracefully on a barely-there bed. He examined it deliberately slowly, until Arthur lost patience and sat up to see. He looked at it, pleased, and Merlin rolled his eyes and returned his pencils to their little tin.

Arthur turned thoughtful. “I won’t have anything to remember you by,” he said suddenly. Merlin was confused.

“What?”

“You have pictures of me,” Arthur said defensively.

“You - do you want one of me?” Merlin said slowly, feeling oddly wrongfooted. Arthur nodded immediately and he thought about it. “I suppose we could – lie on your stomach, would you?”

Arthur looked perplexed, but did so, and Merlin considered him for a moment, eyes lingering somewhat on the curve of his arse, as he was only human. He got up, searching through the room until he came up with a small mirror. He placed it against Arthur’s hip and sat back. It would do.

He dragged a chair over to the bed, shifting this way and that until he could see his own face properly as he looked at Arthur. With a satisfied noise, he reached for more paper, but Arthur stopped him, eyeing the paper uncertainly.

“Could you – here?” he said, leaning over to retrieve the book of sonnets. He held it out and Merlin looked at it doubtfully, then took it, flipping through the pages.

“Where?” he said, just as he landed on the sonnet Arthur had read to him earlier. He noted that its final two lines ran onto the next page, which was thereafter blank. He held it up in question and Arthur nodded.

Merlin sat back after adjusting the mirror a final inch, and began to draw, following the shape of Arthur’s upper body as he lay, head up on one arm, tinkering with proportions as he felt necessary until it more resembled his own body. He watched himself in the mirror critically, shading his hair and the shape of his own eyes and cheekbones, as well as the stubble that had crept in ever since Uther left.

He added a few finishing touches and examined it, now a neat half-body portrait of himself lying down, ending where his arse would be just below the words on the page. The portrait’s eyes looked directly out of the page, a half smile on his lips.

Merlin handed it to Arthur, who smiled and traced it with a careful finger before closing the book. He stood and stretched, pausing as he noticed Arthur’s interest and the way he tried to shift subtly against the sheets. He smirked.

“See something you like, Mr Pendragon?”

Arthur gave him a flat look, then a tiny grin. “Come here,” he said commandingly. Who was Merlin to refuse?

Merlin lay down beside him on his side and immediately reached down to confirm what he already knew, smirking when he felt Arthur hot and hard through the sheet. Arthur tensed, and glared at him, but Merlin laughed and kissed him, still dizzy with the ease of it all.

Arthur’s hand rose to his face and Merlin caught him by the wrist and brought his hand to his mouth, noting with affection the smudge of pencil where he had touched the portrait. He looked into Arthur’s eyes and parted his lips, breathing on him for the barest second before closing his mouth lightly around his fingertips. Arthur’s eyes darkened and his own lips parted as Merlin sucked at his first two fingers before pulling off, fighting a laugh at the betrayed look on Arthur’s face.

He let go and Arthur’s hand hung in the air for a moment while Merlin reached down, pushing the sheet away from his lower body. He made eye contact as he wrapped his hand around Arthur and moved. Arthur hissed and dug his nails into Merlin’s shoulder. He leaned in for a kiss.

* * *

They lay on their sides, facing each other, faces perhaps eight inches apart. Merlin watched the firelight play on the side of Arthur’s face. He smiled at him and ghosted a fingertip over his cheekbone. He didn’t know whether to acknowledge that this was their last night or simply pretend they had forever. He wasn’t sure which would hurt more, in the end. But he had never been one to hold back, not when it mattered.

“I hope you remember me,” he said quietly, praying Arthur wouldn’t close off at the mere mention of it ending.

“Always,” he said simply, and reached up to touch Merlin’s hair. A slightly pained look flashed across his face, but he smiled. “I remember the first time I wanted to kiss you.”

“On the beach, before I told you,” Merlin said automatically, but Arthur shook his head with a small smile.

“Before that.”

“What? When?”

“Picnic,” Arthur said, then looked away, embarrassed. “And the horse ride.”

“The horse ride?” Merlin said, delighted, and Arthur covered his face with one hand.

“You were so…cross,” he said weakly. Merlin laughed.

“And the picnic?”

Arthur removed his hand and gave him a flat look. “You knew damned well what you were doing with that bottle.”

Merlin grinned. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

Arthur hummed sceptically, then picked at the material of the pillow. “What about you, then?”

“Who says I want to kiss you?” Arthur flicked him. “Fine, fine. Even longer than you, then.”

“Oh?”

“I dreamt of you,” Merlin said, willing the cracks he felt at that not to show. Arthur leant over to kiss him, looking impossibly fond. “We wasted time,” Merlin said with regret as they pulled apart.

Arthur nodded slightly. “Just remember,” he said with a slightly sad smile.

“I will.”

* * *

As they fell asleep together, Merlin didn’t know how true that was about to be.

His dreams were the worst yet that night, chaotic and jumbled, fleeting impressions and emotions combining with flashes of scenes, painfully clear but shifting so fast he could barely grasp what was happening before it flitted away, falling deeper and deeper down through the centuries.

* * *

_Lightning flashed. The lady, looking at him sadly. The blade, and the blood, and the rain. The tower, receding into the distance._

_He’d found it at last. His hand reached out and closed on the hilt of the last immortal blade, his fingers trembling as the owner slept an enchanted sleep._

_He walked away from the village, where they would awake to find him simply gone. He’d stayed too long already._

_Music swelled, and a beautiful, regal woman in a deep green gown danced with him, their feet moving effortlessly in a glittering ballroom filled with people in courtly dress._

_The stone was like ice beneath him as he sat against the jail cell wall, idly contemplating when to escape, and where he would go this time._

_Smoke filled the air, and Merlin looked nonsensically to the skies as London burned, half-expecting to see Kilgharrah in the skies as he had been over Camelot, so long ago._

_A dirty hand reached out helplessly as he passed through streets groaning with bodies. The plague was everywhere, sweeping through the continent. He looked around for witnesses before bending to give the man a painless death. He’d tried to save as many as he could._

_The water was icy, his lungs burning. They had called him a witch. They hadn’t, deep down, expected to be right. He felt his magic rise, and the ropes broke around his wrists. That was about to change._

_The sun baked down on a flat rooftop, and Merlin kissed a kind, gentle man on the dusty ground._

_And then a proud, fiery girl on an ice-covered lake as their breath misted in the air around them._

_The crowd buzzed and jostled around him as he waited for the play to start in the great round theatre, the pride of London. He really was clever, this Will._ Not like my Will _, he thought automatically. He smiled to himself as the curtain raised, the hurt old and familiar by now._

_A sequence of battlefields flashed before his eyes, too many to count, each with different armour and weapons and standards flapping in the breeze, but all with the same dead and dying boys. Merlin saved an older man with a touch, and let a young boy go with a lump of sorrow and anger in his throat._

_He watched a young girl patiently write out the alphabet under his careful hand._

_And a motherly woman brew a tonic Gaius would have been proud of as he instructed her._

_And a frightened, magical boy speak his first spell, relief at the control stark in his eyes._

_Merlin was the last to leave at another funeral. And another. And another._

_The pages flipped impossibly faster and faster, back through the years._

_His magic hummed in his veins as the New World was sighted in the distance._

_The wind whipped at his face as he saw France come into view across the channel._

_Cinnamon, chocolate, tomatoes burst on his tongue and he thought this, this glorious newness, might be worth it all._

_A young man chipped away carefully at a sculpture, coaxing muscles and tendons from marble as Merlin watched his strong, sure hands._

_An older one pored over some very faded records of Camelot and dipped his quill in an inkwell._

_Faces blurred as he met kings and queens, dirty children in the street and madmen in cells, people who thought they could change the world and people who did._

_He helped one, two, a thousand people to their feet._

_He killed, for self-defence and the greater good and love and magic._

_He healed, pressing his hands to gaping wounds, fevered brows and broken bones._

_Camelot fell, and he walked away._

_Gwen’s hand was warm in his as she slipped away, old and at peace._

_The knights fell, one by one._

_His mother’s face smoothed in sleep one last time._

_Gaius coughed and his breathing slowed, hand in Merlin’s._

_And then he was back at the lake, watching Arthur float away for a single, dizzying second, before suddenly -_

_They were back in Camelot, and Arthur was pale and serious, and it was still so new, this quiet thing of stolen kisses and shy touches, and they were to go to battle the next day and -_

_Arthur was laughing, young and golden and arrogant in the sunlight and Merlin wanted so badly what he could not have and -_

_He staggered to his feet and called lightning from the sky, and Nimueh fell and then -_

_He arrived in Camelot and the first city he had ever known clamoured around him, and –_

_Arthur was there, haughty and proud and impossibly young, and even as Merlin bristled at his attitude he knew, somewhere deep down, that there was something about this boy, that it would be hard to shake the memory of those eyes, and he looked at Merlin in amused disbelief, and –_

* * *

Merlin – Emrys – Merlin woke with centuries in his head, the decades jostling for space in this new, young brain alongside his magic – all of it, now, deep and powerful.

His head ached almost as much as his heart, as remembered grief reinscribed itself on it, no longer the gradual drops they had been at the time but closer to a bucket of ice water, immediate and overwhelming and painful.

He sat bolt upright, eyes gold and chest heaving, barely aware of where he was.

Eyes still closed, Arthur lazily snaked an arm around his waist to pull him back down, but in his panic, Merlin just _reacted_ and shoved Arthur away with a hand and a jolt of magic, causing him to fall off the bed and onto the floor with a yell.

His head whipped around at the sound and the candle by the bed lit with a whoosh before he quenched it. His magic roared in his veins, whole for the first time in over twenty years and very nearly out of control.

He remembered everything. This short, average painter’s life was just barely at the surface of a millennium, now, the last few days with Arthur slowly floating to the top.

He was so disoriented he didn’t even notice Arthur struggling to his feet until the sound of his voice filtered through.

“-erlin? Merlin?” Arthur knelt cautiously on the side of the bed, reaching a hand out.

Merlin had thought he would never hear that voice again and to hear it now was too much, a drop too much in the deluge and suddenly he was crying and gasping and Arthur, alarmed, pulled him tight to his chest. Merlin clutched at him and shook, until the disorder and chaos in his head settled like silt and he remembered.

“Arthur,” he said desperately, the word tasting funny in his mouth. “Arthur, do you remember me?” He took his face in his hands and searched Arthur’s worried eyes with his own, red-rimmed already.

“Of course I remember you,” Arthur said, confused, and before the tone registered in Merlin’s mind the words ignited a terrible hope in his chest. “You’re right here,” Arthur said gently. “You’re scaring me, what is it?” Merlin looked into his eyes and it was like losing him all over again to see only this life there, only concern and confusion. He sagged and Arthur held him up, repeating his name again.

But Arthur was alive. His mind raced. Alive and young and safe and whole, and wasn’t that what Merlin had been waiting for? He would get him back, the old one, somehow, but for now he was so overcome to have any version of Arthur that he just kissed him, teeth clacking together as he pressed as close as he could, for the first time in a handful of hours and in a millennium.

He sank into it for a moment, then, horrified, remembered that Arthur didn’t know anything had changed, that he was kissing this stranger, this barely human version of the man he knew, and pulled back, ignoring his questions. He allowed himself to splay a shaking hand on Arthur’s chest and closed his eyes at the beat he found there, strong and steady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy. The two poems are [here](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51783/break-of-day) and [here](https://poets.org/poem/unperfect-actor-stage-sonnet-23). Did I spend several hours searching for ones that existed at this point in history? Perhaps. The drawing of the nudes was inspired by the scene from the movie.
> 
> Other quotes:  
> \- “These, our bodies, possessed by light / tell me we’ll never get used to it” (Richard Siken, ['Scheherazade'](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/scheherazade-crush-by-richard-siken/))  
> \- “The helpless honesty of half-sleep, where there are no words to parse or doubt, & a kiss can only mean I’m glad you’re here.’ (Chuck Carlise, ['I Can Tell You a Story'](http://www.chuckcarlise.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/09/I-CAN-TELL-YOU-A-STORY-2.pdf))  
> \- “You came into my life-not as one comes to visit (…) but as one comes to a kingdom where all the rivers have been waiting for your reflection, all the roads, for your steps.” (Vladimir Nabokov, _Letters to Vera_ )  
> \- “The most remarkable thing about you, standing in the doorway, is that it’s you, and you’re standing in the doorway.” (The Mountain Goats, ['Going to Georgia'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKGPIji1uN4&ab_channel=TheMountainGoats-Topic))  
> \- And for Arthur being all awkward with his words, bless him: "But with all my education I can't seem to command it / And the words are all escaping, and coming back all damaged /And I would put them back in poetry if I only knew how I can't seem to understand it / And I would give all this and heaven too / I would give it all if only for a moment / That I could just understand the meaning of the word you see / 'Cause I've been scrawling it forever, but it never makes sense to me at all." (Florence and the Machine, ['All This And Heaven Too'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3yIuePXvgus&ab_channel=Florence%2BtheMachine-Topic))
> 
> Up next (penultimate chapter!): Merlin – now with memories! Introspection, Uther (he is not the one being introspective, obviously), a goodbye and a punch – not just of a canvas, this time, either. 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close to the end! Sorry this is a day late; I went out before I was done editing yesterday, lol. Enjoy, and thank you to everyone reading and commenting so far! <3

Arthur kept holding Merlin while he calmed down, stroking his hair. Every time Merlin felt him on the edge of asking again, he repeated that it had simply been a nightmare. His mind was racing, running through spells he hadn’t known existed yesterday, searching desperately through the centuries for something to make him remember. With a pang, he realised that he had a lot more experience making people forget – how long he had looked the same, or his magic, or all of it.

The prophecy and promise of Arthur’s return had seemed so concrete at the time – concrete enough to get him through the bad years, even without a timeframe – but bitterly, he thought that as usual, Kilgharrah had neglected to be specific. He let Arthur hold him for a while longer, revelling in the touch he both knew so well and had been aching for all this time.

Eventually he pulled away and lay down, rubbing at his face and guiltily dodging another kiss on the lips in favour of holding hands. They lay quietly. Arthur’s thumb stroked over the back of his hand in a soothing pattern, and he was painfully aware of every millimetre of touch, each pass seeming to leave a trail of heat behind.

“Sorry,” he said, finally. His voice sounded different to him already, and he wondered if Arthur could hear it, too. After all, he used to notice if Merlin hadn’t smiled all day, or if he had fallen out with Gaius. He almost smiled at the memories, but faltered as he realised just how unmoored he felt with this Arthur, how much he still didn’t know. They had moved so fast, this time. After a week or two in Camelot, Merlin still would have fed him to Kilgharrah.

“Merlin –” Arthur paused and the movement of his hand on Merlin’s stuttered, as they heard the crunch of gravel outside the house, drawing closer. Both sighed.

Merlin resisted a groan. He had – understandably, he thought - completely forgotten Uther was due back already. Being reminded of this fact was somewhere on a par with remembering being burnt at the stake. All his new-old memories had done was confirm the suspicions he had had this time around – Uther Pendragon was unbearable in every life.

Arthur squeezed his hand and lifted it for a kiss before letting go. Merlin’s felt cold at the loss. Arthur sighed again and stood in one fluid motion, gathering up his clothes and shaking them out with a little frown on his face. Camelot Arthur had been much less fussy about these things, but Merlin supposed he had been the one doing all the laundry, back then. In response to the thought, Merlin felt his magic perk up, extending hopefully towards the pile of clothes to smooth them, or make them simply appear on Arthur’s body, or something even more unwise, like simply freeze time until he figured out how to make him remember. Merlin pulled it back, unwilling to trust it just yet. It felt volatile, unpredictable, and he had already shoved Arthur away once, accidentally. He couldn’t risk hurting him. He blinked and focused on Arthur again, raising an eyebrow as he tripped putting on his trousers.

Arthur jerked his head in the direction of the window. “I have to get back to my room,” he said. Outside, a coach door opened and slammed shut. “Quickly.”

He picked up his books, and his shirt where it had been thrown on the floor and walked around to Merlin’s side of the bed. His eye caught on something on the floor, and he smirked and bent to retrieve one of the pictures Merlin had drawn of him the previous night - the suggestive, barely-there sheet one. He tucked it carefully inside the book of sonnets, and Merlin rolled his eyes. Arthur leant in for a kiss, and pulled back to search Merlin’s eyes, but cursed as the sound of the front door opening drifted up the stairs. Merlin found himself leaning forward, following Arthur as he pulled away, and as Arthur headed for the door he absently raised a hand to his lips. Arthur cracked the door carefully, and peered into the corridor before stepping out with one last look at Merlin.

Silence settled back around him like the years, and he flopped back, almost glad to be alone for the first time since he’d woken up with himself in his head. He looked at the door and thought absently about getting up to lock it before Uther could barge in. His magic crackled, and the key turned in the lock so fast and hard there was a nasty scraping sound. Merlin stumbled out of bed, alarmed. He pulled and rattled at the handle, eventually succeeding in unlocking the door and extracting the key, which he looked at with some foreboding. It had twisted and bent. He clenched it in his hand until it hurt, then breathed out and set it on the table.

How was he going to make Arthur remember if he couldn’t trust his magic to lock a door without doing damage? In fairytales, a kiss always broke the spell, but he’d pressed so close to Arthur he’d barely been able to breathe and looked into his eyes for anything, the barest hint of history, and seen nothing but youth. This Arthur had only known him a matter of weeks. He’d never seen battle, or magic, or felt the weight of the crown.

Was there even a spell for this? Merlin considered himself well-versed in magic at this point, but he couldn’t call a precedent to mind. And new magical knowledge was harder and harder to come by with every passing year, with many of the more recent records written by Merlin himself. If he was honest, he had just never considered that Arthur would come back different.

Besides, here and now? Merlin, this painter Merlin, was supposed to leave, to walk out of Arthur’s life forever. He suspected, given half a chance, that Uther would cheerfully and bodily _throw_ him out. And Arthur was betrothed, a whole web of careful networking surrounding the rest of his life. If Merlin didn’t figure it out quickly, what was he to do? For all his desire to see the best in people, Arthur would think him insane, and that’s before Uther got wind of Merlin’s mere presence and had him killed. He supposed, idly, that he could just remove Uther from the equation, but his younger, more innocent self balked at the prospect and begrudgingly, he supposed that this Uther hadn’t led a genocide. He was just unpleasant, and extremely unlikely to listen to reason and let Merlin stay while he tried to reconcile the loves of both his lives.

This Arthur still had everything Merlin had loved in Camelot, and even before he remembered, Merlin had certainly fallen for him on his own – and quite thoroughly. Arthur was as warm and maddening and complex and sweet as he had ever been, and they loved each other, and he knew that. But the imbalance of… context was vast, and growing by the second.

A door opened and closed in the distance, and Merlin snapped out of his gloom. He realised with distinct distaste that he was going to have to interact with Uther for the first time in over a millennium. Worse, he was going to have to be really quite polite to him. Choosing, as he often did, to focus on the most immediate problem, Merlin figured that he should probably be dressed for the occasion, or indeed dressed full stop. He sighed and eyed his crumpled clothes. Absently, he reached out a hand to straighten them out, but clenched it in a fist as he remembered the key. He pushed down the wave of magic that had risen automatically, extremely put out at the loss of his hard-won control.

He pulled his trousers on, grateful for the muscle memory of this body, and plucked at the soft material. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Fashion always changed so fast. They were perfectly normal, these clothes, if a little shabby – he was, after all, still the Merlin who had chosen them, but he tried to remember the last time he had consciously kept up with passing trends.

He had spent his long life going through phases of engaging with fashion and ignoring it entirely. Some decades he had been positively extravagantly dressed, in the finest materials and dyes, fit to mingle with royalty. In others, he had clung irrationally to old favourites, or attempted unwise combinations of old and new, with the effect of coming off rather eccentric. And of course, in between times, the standard village hermit attire hadn’t changed so much, and when he lost interest he often found himself simply aging up, throwing on a cloak, and grumbling at people. He figured the last time he’d bothered to be a well-dressed gentleman was at least a century ago - and the clothes had definitely not been this comfortable.

He sat on the edge of the bed and raised a hand to his chest, running his fingers over the birthmark – the scar, rather – where the blade had gone through. He ran a finger along it and swallowed at the memory of blood in the back of his throat. It was all so much more vivid now, the sharp clarity no longer threatening to fade, as dreams did. Even the moments spent almost dying – actually dying – were still painfully clear, and unhappily, he suspected that he had magic to thank for that, too.

The death was much clearer than the misery that had led him to it, now. The years of slow, muted monotony blurred together like scenes in a story he had only heard second-hand, like someone else’s life. Which it was, in some ways. But he remembered his certainty, the only clear thought he’d had in months, that desire to rest, to stop. He swallowed down the guilt. He wished he wasn’t prone to periods like that. No good idea had ever come out of one.

But who else got a second chance like this? And not only a second chance, but the thing they had waited so long for? Arthur was back, only a little younger than Merlin, this time. A stray, reflexive thought reminding him to tease him about that reversal rose to the top of his mind, where it promptly burst on the knowledge that this Arthur didn’t know it had ever been any different.

He couldn’t stop himself from wondering if he had really been so close, only to throw it all away. Could he really have waited a matter of months and Arthur would have been born as a baby anyway? Would Merlin have known? Felt it? Was he always fated to come back at this moment, and Merlin had just finally failed in his patience, in his one duty? Or worse, had his – he grimaced - his grand gesture, of sorts, been a catalyst? Was that fated, too? Had he inadvertently sped up the process? Made some sort of – some sort of point?

Consciously, he shut down that tangled web of thoughts, recognising it as useless even as he teetered on the edge of letting it consume him. Arthur was alive, and here, and Merlin would figure out the rest. And he had got to have him, in ways he had hardly begun to hope for, even then before it had all fallen apart.

He pulled on his shirt and shoes, turning around to find the bed already made by overzealous magic. The sheet was ripped where it had been pulled too tight. He held out a hand with the thought of fixing it, but stopped himself again. The magic was still practically coming out of his skin, eager and heavy-handed, like he was a teenager all over again.

He crossed the room and looked at himself in the mirror, eyeing the longer hair, feeling a strange doubling sensation as his two selves looked back. He forced himself to meet his own eyes, the eyes that had looked out at him from every body of water and polished surface ever since he was born. Both times. He looked young, somehow. Like Arthur. He touched his longer hair, and ran a hand over the stubble that had crept in since Uther had left.

He smiled a little, remembering returning to Camelot, once, after a long time away, and Gwen’s laughter at his beard. She had been older then, still beautiful and regal, and she had cupped his cheek gently and told him she missed him. The memory almost ached, but abruptly he froze. Gwen. The others. He hadn’t even had a chance to think about them yet.

He ran through them in his mind, and it hurt all over again, to realise that his mother was gone in this life, too, but he took the extra years of memories for what they were and tucked them away in his heart. Will might still be around, somewhere, even if this Merlin hadn’t seen him since they were fourteen, when he left home. And Gaius was here, younger and more able than he had been back then, but in so many ways just the same. Like Gwen, who, it seemed, was herself in all times.

He would have to find her again, once he solved the Arthur problem. He had missed her fiercely all his life, and was thinking of how to track her down when his mind abruptly ran into the problem of Morgana. He wondered who she was, this time. It sounded like she was at least as headstrong as she always had been. He paused, hands hovering over a button on his shirt the other problem occurred to him. Did this Morgana have magic, too? Was she a Seer again? He could have slapped himself on the forehead as he suddenly recalled Gwen’s initially odd reaction as he told her about his dreams of things that never happened. It was entirely possible Morgana had told her about her premonitions, whether she recognised them as such or not.

It was hard to imagine how it would be, seeing her again. He wondered if she would even remember. If she should. He couldn’t stop destiny creeping into his thoughts, but even though Kilgharrah’s warnings had so consumed him at the time, over the years he had often found himself wondering if the prophecies and predictions about Morgana were of the self-fulfilling variety.

More to the point, eighteenth-century England wasn’t Camelot. No one even knew magic existed anymore, and while Uther was still trying to control Morgana’s life, he wasn’t leading a purge on her kind. Maybe the circumstances were different enough. And Merlin had more hindsight than anyone could dare to hope for, and he knew he wouldn’t make the same decisions, given another chance.

He shook his head and finished dressing, shoving down the old hurts that felt suddenly as fresh as they had when they happened. _Could_ they even remember? Nothing in the snatches of prophecy he had been left with ever hinted at more than Arthur, but he supposed Arthur wasn’t Arthur without the people around him. He had always needed them, to be who he was.

What if they never remembered, and this was some fresh torture, to be reunited with the people he loved and have them only scratch the surface of him? To watch them live ordinary lives and never remember who they had been? A punishment, of sorts, for his failures. He frowned suddenly. The country really had gotten awfully religious over the years, and ideas of divine punishment and penance had obviously crept in while he wasn’t looking, joining a host of half-remembered prayers and hymns he didn’t believe in.

But no, he decided. Whatever happened next, their lives were their own. And so was his, and he found himself profoundly grateful it hadn’t ended that night on the hill.

He tidied the room and packed by magic, and even keeping a tight grip on it, it threatened to overflow, and he was somewhat concerned about the speed and ease of it all. He really would have to retrain his control before he brought a building down on himself. The last suitcase slammed shut, and he winced at the noise, checking the catch for damage. To think he had spent this life impressed and afraid of magic that lit a few candles.

As he finished, checking straps and buckles by hand, Uther knocked commandingly at the door and walked in. Merlin supposed, begrudgingly, that it wasn’t his room anymore, but still fought to conceal his reflexive dislike. He certainly hadn’t mourned Uther the first time, and it seemed reincarnation had brought to bear no improvements on either his personality or his parenting skills. At least this one wasn’t such a bigot, but Merlin suspected, bitterly, that that was only because he didn’t know about magic at all.

“Mr Emrys,” Uther said, giving him a cold, appraising look.

“Sire,” he said, cursing the slip of the tongue as soon as it left his mouth, but Uther just looked at him disdainfully, fully prepared to believe that Merlin was simply dim enough to forget the proper terms of address.

He fought to keep a neutral expression on his face. His fingers twitched at his side as Uther walked into the room and headed for the easel, shooting Merlin a wary look as though he half-expected to find another painting destroyed. He leaned in to inspect it then stood back, hands clasped behind his back and gave a begrudging nod of approval.

“A fine likeness,” he said finally. Merlin smiled politely. He was aware that the vast majority of the grudge he held against Uther was unfair, given the man had no memory of his previous faults, but it was hard to shake a loathing like that. And, honestly, he didn’t feel like trying.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, catching the ‘sire’ before it happened this time. He forced himself to continue the charade. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

“Adequate,” Uther said stiffly. “I picked up Arthur’s wedding suit on the way back. From the finest tailor in the south west, naturally.”

“Very good, sir.”

Uther eyed him suspiciously, but unable to find any sarcasm or another reason to tell Merlin off, sniffed and continued. “He should be trying it on in the main reception room as we speak. You should call and say goodbye, when you’re ready to leave.”

Merlin nodded, and Uther left with a final contemptuous look at the untidy little pile of possessions by the bed. Merlin ran a hand through his hair. ‘Goodbye’. How could he leave Arthur like this?

He gathered up his things and left, pausing to look back at the room. It was still a beautiful room, but seemed colder and emptier for Arthur’s absence. Merlin smiled sadly and closed the door on a very strange two weeks. He made his way awkwardly downstairs and dumped his things at the door for easy retrieval before climbing back up to find Arthur.

The door to the reception room Uther had mentioned was open, and his voice floated out into the hallway, a continuous monologue. Merlin knocked and stepped in, immediately arrested at the sight of Arthur in a beautiful, plainly expensive wedding suit, looking just as he would at the end of the aisle.

He looked unhappy, stiff and uncomfortable as he picked at the clothes, a far cry from the relaxed figure he had cut all week, whether at the kitchen table or in Merlin’s bed.

Uther paced around him, casting a critical eye over the outfit, examining and commenting like a man judging a prize racehorse. Arthur barely responded to his comments, but it made little difference.

Wonder still washed over Merlin at the sight of him, standing there, mouth twisted in displeasure and hair messy, perfectly ordinary and a miracle all at once. He looked up as Merlin entered and his eyes softened immediately. He smiled and Merlin felt the familiar ache in his chest.

“Arthur.”

“Merlin.”

Uther was still muttering to himself, turning and walking over closer to Merlin to admire the full effect.

“Where’s that cravat I bought you last year?” he said impatiently. Arthur was still looking at Merlin, and dragged his eyes away with some difficulty.

“What?”

“Pardon,” Uther corrected automatically. “The cravat?”

Arthur sighed. “In my room, father, I’ll -”

Uther cut him off. “I’ll fetch it.” He turned to Merlin. “Goodbye, Mr Emrys. Safe journey,” he said pointedly, and Merlin’s heart sank at the prospect of fitting his second goodbye with Arthur into the time it took Uther to retrieve a tie. Arthur’s room was messy, but not that messy. Time was short.

He left and Arthur immediately shoved off the jacket, unbuttoning his collar and rolling up his sleeves.

“You’ll only have to do it up again,” Merlin pointed out, amused.

“Don’t care. I hate this.” Arthur scowled at the offending articles, then snapped his head up as Merlin, unable to resist another moment, crossed the room and embraced him tightly.

Surprised, he wrapped his arms around Merlin and buried his face in his neck, inhaling the scent of him. Merlin did the same, swallowing down the tears that threatened. He never used to be this emotional, but he supposed a significant part of him had given up on seeing Arthur again, long before Glastonbury.

He closed his eyes and fisted his hands in the back of Arthur’s shirt like he could hold onto him that way. They stood like that for a moment, breathing each other in, until Merlin pulled back, his hands on Arthur’s upper arms and looking into his eyes. His mind was still racing. He had already kissed Arthur this morning, but what if that was still somehow the answer? A small, guilty part of him also knew that he just wanted to kiss him, if this was to be a goodbye again, for however long.

He still felt bad about the illusion Arthur was under, that he was exactly the same as he had been the previous night, but this time he shoved it aside and kissed him fiercely, a millennium of devotion behind it. He looped his arms around Arthur’s neck and Arthur melted into the kiss until he broke away, pushing Merlin back gently with regret in his eyes.

“My father,” he said roughly. “He could come back at any moment.”

Merlin searched his eyes desperately for a hint that anything had changed.

“Arthur, can’t you –” But Arthur misread something in his desperation and his mouth tightened.

“You knew this would end. We both did,” he said stiffly. “We cannot pretend otherwise.” He removed his hand from Merlin’s elbow and clenched it into a fist. “I don’t have a choice,” he said, resigned.

Merlin had spent enough time a slave to destiny to have a very low tolerance for the concept of ‘no choice’. He had to try.

“Of course you do,” he burst out, impatient. “You always have a choice.”

Arthur’s eyebrows drew closer together as he looked at Merlin, anguished. “You said you wouldn’t ask me to make it,” he said quietly. Merlin opened his mouth, but Arthur held up a hand. “Where would we go? What would we do? What kind of life could we ever have? This can’t be – it can’t be any more than it is,” he said, looking away. “That isn’t how the world works. Not for – not for us.”

Merlin, his heart breaking, wondered if that was the first time Arthur had ever included himself in that ‘us’. He had no idea what to do. He hadn’t expected it to hurt this much, to have Arthur so close, right in front of him, and not be able to reach him. It was almost funny, in a tragic sort of way, to have lost Arthur the first time in a grand battle of swords and magic, and now to be separated from him by nothing more than social convention.

He couldn’t see a way out, not if Arthur didn’t remember. Perhaps this version of Arthur really did have little choice in the way he lived his life. Perhaps Merlin would have to leave, however much it hurt, and resolve to find him again when he found the answer. He wasn’t sure what was worse, the prospect of watching Arthur move on or the prospect of never seeing him again, whichever version he was.

“I can’t watch you do this,” he said softly, pressing his lips together at the hurt he saw flash across Arthur’s face. “I have to – I have to go.” He reached out a hand to touch Arthur and stopped, knowing that if he touched him again he might never stop. His hand hung there, before he closed his fist awkwardly and dropped it jerkily to his side.

He turned away. For all the grief and death and loss he had known, the one thing Merlin had always had was the luxury of time. He had so rarely been the one who did the leaving, not when he really loved someone.

With a monumental effort, he turned his back and walked slowly towards the door, reminding himself over and over that if he could just find a way to restore his memory, he would see him again. Even if he didn’t, he silently swore he would find a way, some unlikely coincidence that might send Merlin Emrys to Paris, some tenuous art reason. Anything.

He felt Arthur’s eyes on the back of his neck and willed himself to keep looking at the stupid, ornate door that was about to separate them. His breathing hitched as he reached out for the handle.

“Look at me.” Arthur’s voice broke on the words, and so did Merlin’s resolve. When had he ever been able to refuse Arthur anything, when he really meant it?

He turned, and the look on Arthur’s face was like a punch to the gut. Standing there, half dressed in that huge room with high ceilings, he looked terribly lonely, and Merlin’s feet were carrying him across the room again before he even realised he was going.

His hand came up to cup Arthur’s face. The moment his hand made contact, Arthur closed his eyes and swallowed. A tear escaped his eye and rolled off his lashes, running down his cheek onto Merlin’s hand.

Merlin wondered how he was ever going to let him go.

The door burst open and they broke apart, Merlin’s palm hot where he had been touching Arthur.

Uther’s face was set in a tight fury Merlin was intimately familiar with. His heart sped up, even aware as he was that Uther could do nothing to him, not now. He felt the familiar tingle of magic under his skin and kept his expression blank as Uther marched towards them with a face like thunder.

He had something clutched tightly in one hand, and Merlin frowned, noticing that it definitely wasn’t a tie, but was distracted by Uther stopping short approximately a foot in front of his face. Oh good, his fault again, then, whatever it was.

Too late, his eyes dropped and he realised that what Uther was holding was Arthur’s book of sonnets with the drawing in it. And, by the looks of it, the one of Arthur still tucked inside. _Arthur, you sentimental, indiscreet idiot,_ he thought resignedly. What was the point in asking Merlin to draw in a book if he was going to leave it lying around, page conveniently marked with a similarly inappropriate bookmark?

He looked at Arthur quickly, who had obviously come to the same conclusion and who had gone very white. Merlin was oddly numb. He was about to lose Arthur again and Uther expected him to care about _this_?

Apparently so, because he had already started, opening the book to the page in question and thrusting it in Merlin’s face, catching the other drawing as it fell out. He jabbed a finger at it.

“What is the meaning of this, boy?” Merlin noted that the time for a clipped ‘Mr Emrys’ had apparently passed at last, but his eyes were glued to the pictures. He had to admit, they were worth at least a few dozen words. The soft edges, the lack of clothing, the way they were both lying in bed, the look in their eyes – it said quite a lot, none of it promising for any of Merlin’s half-formed excuses about portrait practice.

“I knew it was a mistake to let you stay here, I knew there was something wrong with you the moment I met you. How dare you bring this – this perversion into my house? I’m sure you have other sick little drawings in your things, how could you do this to my son?”

Merlin stared. It sounded like he thought – But Uther paused, visibly switching tracks as it dawned on him that the pictures and their location strongly implied Arthur’s consent. He turned to his son, and Arthur’s pale, miserable face answered the question before it had even been asked.

“You knew about this?” he said quietly. “You and he –” He trailed off.

Uther never had been able to see what was right in front of him until it was too late.

Arthur’s mouth opened and then closed with a click. Uther took a breath and shook his head in disgust before turning around to face the preferred object of his ire.

“You little whore,” he said softly. Merlin failed to suppress a flinch, and he clenched his fist against the desire to turn Uther into something unpleasant, power bubbling just below the surface, just waiting for an instruction. “I left you in my house, alone with my son. I gave you food and shelter and promised to pay you handsomely, and this is how you repay me? You corrupt my son? My son, who is getting married in a matter of weeks? How dare you,” – visibly, Merlin saw him land on a new possibility, one that solved several problems for him – “Force yourself on him in such a manner?”

Merlin was willing to take a lot from this man, but the insinuation that anything had been less than fully consensual was a step too far, in his view. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but Uther suddenly threw the book to the ground and Merlin jumped at the noise, the distraction providing just enough space for Uther to start up again, red in the face now and spittle flying from his lips along with a host of new and interesting epithets for Merlin and his ilk.

Merlin stood silently, the flash of anger from a moment ago already fading. It seemed that silence was also, somehow, the wrong approach, as Uther stepped in and abruptly backhanded him across the face.

“Are you even listening to me boy? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

Stunned, Merlin brought a hand to his stinging face and stretched his jaw. He lifted his fingers away to see blood, his gaze dropping to the ornate ring on Uther’s hand. He grimaced, pain seeping in along with an alarming wave of instinctive magic that had reared up at the assault. He shoved it down desperately, clenching his teeth.

The room was silent apart from Uther’s heavy breathing. Arthur, who up until that moment had been still, suddenly moved, crossing the room to plant himself between his father and Merlin. Uther’s eyes popped.

It would have been more amusing if Merlin wasn’t still preoccupied with fighting his magic down, as it threatened to throw Uther back against the wall with extreme prejudice. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, but it wouldn’t do to accidentally kill him, and the twisted metal of the key was still fresh in his mind. But out of practice, the power crackled and rolled beneath his skin like a powerful wave, far out at sea.

As he focused on slowing his breathing, he realised that Uther had found his voice again and was directing it at Arthur.

He saw it happen as if in slow motion. Arthur shifted his stance ever so slightly, put one foot behind the other, and pulled back one arm to punch his father.

Automatically, he reached up and grabbed Arthur’s forearm, holding him back. Momentarily distracted from the tight hold on his magic, as soon as he touched Arthur’s skin he felt a rush of something travel down his arm to his hand and into Arthur, who gasped, going rigid. Merlin jerked at the sensation of shock.

Uther switched targets seamlessly, not realising that anything had happened. “Get your hands off him,” – Arthur pulled his arm from Merlin’s grip and stared at the spot his hand had been wrapped around as if in a trance – “You filthy little deviant, I want you out of my house this instant.”

Merlin heard all of this very distantly, his heartbeat echoing in his ears. Paralysed, he watched Arthur, who was still looking at his arm.

Arthur seemed similarly frozen for several long seconds, then suddenly he made a fist and accomplished what he had set out to do the first time, and clocked his father so hard Uther stumbled and fell to the floor.

He sat, comically surprised, his mouth and opening and closing.

Merlin stared at Arthur, who still had his back to him, shoulders hitching up and down as he breathed, fast and light.

“Arthur – son – what are you –” Uther started weakly. He stared up at his son like he didn’t recognise him. He was evidently too stunned to respond, able only to lift a hand slowly to his already-reddening jaw.

Arthur took a deep breath and set his shoulders. The line of them was suddenly so familiar that Merlin felt as though all the air had gone out of the room and his heart skipped a beat. He licked his lips.

“Arthur,” he said, and it came out barely more than a whisper. He cleared his throat. “Arthur,” he repeated, louder now. “What are you doing?”

Arthur turned away from Uther in disgust, pausing to look at the fist he had just hit him with, flexing his hand. He raised his head and looked directly at Merlin, eyes still red-rimmed. Merlin stopped breathing.

“What I should have done last time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol
> 
> Quotes etc:  
> \- “I am to wait – I do not doubt that I am to meet you again / I am to see to it that I do not lose you.” (Walt Whitman, ['To A Stranger'](https://poets.org/poem/stranger))  
> \- “ _everyone_ had this patina / of slightly bruised longing, this shimmer of / I think I knew you when we were children, / this look of I’ve loved you ever since you were born / and probably longer than that” (Paul Hostovsky, ['Everyone was Beautiful'](http://www.paulhostovsky.com/publications_deartruth.html))  
> \- "Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story." (Richard Siken, ['The Worm King's Lullaby'](https://shiralipkin.tumblr.com/post/128638236715/the-worm-kings-lullaby-by-richard-siken))  
> \- “I should have gone through life half awake if you’d had the decency to leave me alone […] perhaps we woke up one another.” (E.M Forster, _Maurice_ )
> 
> Next time - the final chapter! : talking and walking and [to out myself as having seen this as the title of all those stevebucky fics back in the day] a soft epilogue. Thank you for reading and commenting as always, see you next week for the end! 
> 
> Unrelated, I will also be posting an established relationship canon era christmas/winter kind of fluff oneshot on Monday or Tuesday, probably, if anyone’s interested.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s here it’s here. Thank you so much if you’ve read this far, and I will save the rest of my feelings(tm) for the end <3

“Making a choice.”

Eveything slowed down. Merlin could hear his blood rushing in his ears, his heart hammering in his whole chest. He stared, paralysed, into the eyes he’d been hoping to see for a millennium. Arthur watched him for a second, then turned back to Uther.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I can’t be who you want me to be.” Uther was still at a loss for words.

The world snapped back into motion. Merlin’s too-fast breathing was the only sound. The hope that had been extinguished just that morning flared up in his chest again, hot and painful, and he wanted to squash it, to lock in back in its box, but more than that he wanted it to be right. He wanted it to be that simple, for Arthur really to have remembered.

Slowly, he looked down at the palm of his hand, still tingling where his magic had leapt from him to Arthur. Had he –? He didn’t even know a spell for this. But then he supposed his magic had always played by different rules, more instinctive. And what came more naturally to Merlin, even now, than the instinct to protect Arthur, even from himself?

He’d been so afraid to use it, to do damage with this sudden overflow of power, and the choice had been taken almost literally out of his hands. He closed his fist gently and looked back up. Arthur had bent and retrieved the book and the drawing from where Uther had thrown them. He flexed the hand he had punched his father with and slotted the loose sheet into the book before closing it, fingers lingering on the cover a moment.

He looked up from it and held his hand out. “We should go,” he said quietly, seeming to trail off as Merlin did nothing but stare at him. He let his hand fall awkwardly back to his side just as Merlin caught up and let his own twitch forwards.

Arthur dragged his eyes away from Merlin and looked at Uther one last time. His mouth twisted, then righted itself, and he took a breath. Uther looked between the two of them, seemingly realising at last that something significant had changed. Arthur turned away and made for the door. Merlin followed, almost tripping on his own feet, brain and body still not quite working together again.

In the hallway he paused, one hand on the doorframe. Arthur turned, looking at him in question. Absurdly, Merlin heard himself speak. The first real thing he said to Arthur after all this time tumbled out of his mouth entirely without his permission.

“Your…things,” he said, voice rough. He mumbled something else, and finished “…Pack?”

Arthur looked at him like he might have lost his mind. He was inclined to agree, his thoughts still spinning hysterically, inventing evidence he must be fooling himself, that it wasn’t really his Arthur, just the one from this century, that he had imagined the spark of magic and the look in his eyes.

Arthur’s mouth opened. “I – he – I packed some things last week, when we – when I wanted to leave. That day on the cliff,” he added, stumbling over the words. “I just need a few more things.”

Merlin nodded faintly, the pronouns rattling around his head, crashing into each other. Arthur took an aborted step towards him, but glanced back at the room Uther was still in and changed direction mid-step, heading for his room. Merlin’s feet took him down the hall after him, magnetically drawn, a more rational but still distrustful part of his brain studying the way he walked, the way he held himself, trying to remember if it was the same or different to before.

In his room, Arthur extracted a half-full bag from under his bed and shoved a few more books, trinkets and shirts into it haphazardly. He kicked off the expensive wedding suit shoes, pulled on different ones, and picked up a coat. He crossed the room to where Merlin stood at the door and gave the room a final once over, nodding slightly to himself. He slowed as he drew level with Merlin, but once again his eyes flickered in the direction of Uther in the other room, and he moved on past.

They hurried down the stairs, their footsteps loud in the quiet, and Arthur picked up Merlin’s case of paints by the door without a word while he gathered up the rest. They stepped outside, and Merlin waited, half-expecting crossing the threshold or the fresh, cool morning air to be the thing that broke the spell, or woke him up. All that happened was his breath began to mist in front of him.

The door closed behind them with a heavy finality, the knocker in the brass lion’s mouth rattling in place. Arthur raised a hand to the stone of the house, pressing his fingertips to it lightly before dropping his hand and turning to face Merlin.

It wasn’t a dream, or his imagination. The air was too crisp, the sound of the sea too clear. In the distance, a gull cried out. He felt his heart speed up again. His hand opened, and his bags dropped to the ground with a crunch of gravel.

“Arthur,” he said hoarsely. He pressed his lips together. “Look at me.” And Arthur did, looking strangely nervous. He set his own bags down carefully. Merlin was almost sure. He knew those eyes. He couldn’t let himself – he had to - “Is it - do you …” he fumbled, his throat sticking on the words as he prayed for him to understand, this time.

Arthur stood there, wind ruffling his hair, his collar still undone and his shoulders set. A soldier and a king and a boy.

“I - _Merlin_ ,” he said brokenly, and Merlin knew. Knew it was him, all of him. The force of it slammed into him and his breath caught. He took a step forward. So did Arthur.

They crashed into each other, too hard and rough, faces buried in each other’s shoulders, clinging on. Arthur was shaking, or maybe Merlin was, he didn’t know. They held on so tight it hurt, as if they could compress the gap of centuries between them, as if they could live inside each other again if they could only get close enough.

“It’s me, it’s me, I’m here,” Merlin heard. He had no idea which of them was speaking anymore. He dug his fingers painfully into Arthur’s back and felt his lashes dampen, a lump in his throat. Arthur held onto him like he was the only real thing in the world, breath shaky and loud in Merlin’s ear.

Eventually, they let go. Arthur brought his hand up to Merlin’s face and used his thumb to wipe away a stray tear, infinitely gentle. The wind cooled the tear track instantly. Merlin raised his own hand and caught Arthur’s, so soft this time. These hands had never held a sword, had barely thrown a punch. But they were Arthur’s.

They laced their fingers together and moved to pick up their respective luggage. With a final look at Pendragon House, they walked away together.

As they crested and descended a small hill where the path wound towards the coast, the house disappeared from view behind them. A weight seemed to lift from them, away from the imposing grey stone and the kind of life it had promised.

They stopped on the slope, setting the bags down again. Arthur squeezed Merlin’s hand and let go to sit on the grass. He pulled his hastily-packed bag beside him and opened it to rearrange his things uselessly. Every few seconds his hands paused in their motion, caught between muscle memory and conscious thought. Carefully, Merlin sat down beside him. Arthur slotted a book down the side of the bag and stopped, shoving a crumpled shirt down and closing it again. He stared down at it.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he said suddenly.

Merlin didn’t know or care which time he meant.

“I waited for you,” he blurted, before he could think about it, his heart pounding.

Arthur turned to him. “How long have you known? Remembered?”

He was relieved Arthur had missed his slip. “This morning. I had – I had these dreams, it’s – it’s complicated. But I remembered everything this morning.”

Arthur nodded, no doubt remembering the state Merlin had been in. It felt like weeks ago already.

The corner of his mouth lifted briefly. “What were you planning to do, just leave me there to be married off?”

Merlin almost laughed, but turned serious again. “Arthur, I had no idea how to get you to remember. I don’t know a – a spell for that,” he said, still stumbling over the casual mention of his magic to Arthur. “My magic is – was out of control. I just got it all back and it was too much, I was scared I would hurt you. Besides, you - this version of you,” – he gestured uselessly – “He – you – had to get married. It’s a different time, but that doesn’t mean everything is simple.”

Arthur nodded, thoughtful. “What did you mean, you waited?”

Merlin chewed his lip and berated himself for thinking Arthur would let that slide. He thought about lying for a split second, but discarded the idea almost immediately. He wasn’t going to lie to him. Not again. He sighed.

“When you – when you died,” – Arthur’s lips tightened a fraction – “I… was told you would return someday.” He frowned, surprised. “They just…didn’t say when,” Merlin said with a weak smile.

“So what, you died of old age in Camelot waiting for me?”

Merlin winced. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

“I didn’t. Die,” he added quietly, in clarification.

“For God’s sake, Merlin, what do you mean you didn’t die?” Arthur said, his voice brittle and taking on a faintly hysterical edge.

Merlin swallowed. “I’m magic, Arthur –”

“I’m aware, but –”

Merlin shot him a look and he quietened. “Not I have magic. I _am_ it. Born of it. Deep down in my essence.” He closed his eyes against the sudden memory of the lady using the same word. Lightning and the tower flashed behind his eyelids and he opened them again. “I don’t think I can. Die. Not really.”

Arthur had gone very pale very quickly, and Merlin decided he might as well finish it.

“You’re my – my destiny. The once and future king. We have a – we’re two sides of the same coin, someone told me, once. So I waited,” he said, one side of his mouth pulling up but dropping at the horrified look on Arthur’s face.

“Since – since Camelot. For a thousand years,” Arthur croaked.

Merlin smiled sadly and shrugged. “Give or take. Like this life,” he said. “Something went wrong,” – he prayed Arthur wouldn’t ask, not right now – “And in this life I was born and grew up like anyone else. I never knew. About any of it. Until I arrived here, and started having these dreams. And then last night – this morning – it all came back at once.”

“Jesus, Merlin.” Arthur looked like he might be sick. “All those years. How are you still – how did you not go mad?”

“Ah, you’re just lucky you didn’t come back and find me in the fourteenth century,” Merlin said, aiming for a light tone. It fell flat. Arthur was still looking at him with utter anguish on his face and eventually looked away. He picked at the grass between them. Merlin watched him carefully.

“I thought,” Arthur began again slowly, a little more composed. “I thought I had died without getting the chance to say it.”

Merlin held his breath. “Say what?” he said quietly. Arthur turned to him, so close now he could count his eyelashes.

“You know what,” he whispered, and leaned in to press his lips to Merlin’s.

The position was awkward, leaning close to each other on the damp grass. There was no finesse at first, just pressing as close together as they could, breathing each other in, Arthur’s lips soft on his. He put one hand on Arthur’s chest, holding the front of his shirt. He felt his heartbeat through the soft material and was nonsensically glad he could touch him so easily, no layers of chainmail or armour in the way. Every inch of him sang with the touch, and the kiss gradually grew less urgent and desperate, gentling until they could stand to break apart a few inches.

Merlin couldn’t bear to open his eyes, afraid that the tidal wave of feeling in his chest would be visible for miles. Arthur was there, and warm and alive, and still the memory of the last time their faces were so close together slammed into him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. He could tell Arthur understood what he meant, was maybe even remembering the same thing. Before, he knew his instinct would have been to insist it wasn’t Merlin’s fault. This time, this newer, older Arthur seemed to know, somehow, that that wasn’t what he needed to hear. That it wouldn’t matter, that some part of Merlin would always blame himself.

“I forgive you,” he said instead, as though it were that easy. Maybe it could be.

They pulled apart and sat side by side while Merlin got himself under control. He rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder, feeling lighter. The dark little corner of his mind that had always insisted that this was his penance was silent at last.

The sun started to break through the clouds, still watery and too weak to heat the day, but there.

Eventually, Arthur shifted and Merlin sat up, eyes dry again. Arthur pulled his bag back towards him. “We should go.”

“Where?” Merlin said. It was almost absurd, to be faced with so much choice, no path laid out for them.

“I don’t even know,” Arthur said, half a laugh escaping on the exhale. He tensed, abruptly. “Oh, shit, Merlin. The others. Gwen. And Morgana. Will they remember?”

Merlin sighed. “I don’t know, it worked for you. But my magic always did like you.” Arthur raised his eyebrows and Merlin made a face at him. “They might,” he said, finally.

Arthur nodded, already thinking. He touched the corner of his mouth. “Can we – can we trust her?” he said, and Merlin could see it hurt him to even say it. Arthur’s capacity for love and trust always did amaze him. Both times.

He thought about it, about how to articulate what he’d arrived at that morning. Arthur remembering had only backed it up. “I think,” he began carefully. “That she’s not that person anymore. Are you the same as you – as you were? Completely?” he asked gently.

“No,” Arthur admitted. “I’m hi- I’m this Arthur, too. Both.”

Merlin had arrived at the same conclusion in considering his long first life and this one, and the way they meshed. The two co-existed, uncomfortably at first, then settling together. The lives were just different ways of looking at the same thing, like polished glass lenses held up in front of each other. It was the combination of the two that gave the clearest picture of who they were, now.

“And God knows I’ve changed. More than you can - We’re all different, in some way.” He pressed on. “You could have your sister back. Both of them. And Gwen.”

Arthur looked relieved that Merlin agreed. “That’s where we should go, then, to them.” He stopped. “Oh, Gods, is Gaius – your uncle, from this life?” Merlin nodded. “Him, too, then. Where are Gwen and Morgana, anyway?”

“No idea. Gwen told us her father would know, remember? We can find him and ask him. Although I saw her burn a letter from London last week, so I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s where they are.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. “I’ve never been to London,” he said.

“I have.”

“Cheating,” Arthur said with a smile. “Not in this life.”

“No, that’s true. I’m sure it’ll all be terribly new and exciting.” Merlin thought back through the years. “Actually, now that I think of it, I’m not sure I’ve been back since it burned.” He brightened. “So it really will be new.”

“I’m so glad.”

“And I’ve never been with you.”

“Ah, it’s like you haven’t been at all, then.”

“Ass.”

“Idiot.”

They grinned at each other and Merlin felt something settle in him that had been restless for a millennium. For all he had found on the way, it was as though this was what he had been wandering around looking for. Even his magic had calmed down ever since it had poured into Arthur, and it felt like it almost fit under this skin, now.

More than that, Merlin himself felt like he fit - something he had rarely had, especially in this life, the world always a little too big or too small. But here, in the middle of nowhere with Arthur, he felt right, for the first time in a long time.

“I missed you,” he said, breathless with the sudden intensity of it. The words felt too small for what he meant, and his mind jumped oddly to the ocean, vast and deep.

“I missed you too,” Arthur said, and Merlin valiantly resisted pointing out that he had been conscious for precisely none of the intervening time. Smiling at him, he chose to take it for what it was.

“I do – I do love you, you know,” Arthur said, awkwardly but earnestly. His voice steadied as he continued. “Whoever you’ve been. Whoever you are now. You must know that.”

Merlin bumped his shoulder against his. “I love you, too. I always did. In both lives.”

They kissed again, softly, then stood. They walked a few yards and stopped where the path hugged the coastline before curving away again and watched the sea.

Even with a thousand other memories of a dozen different seas in his head, it still took Merlin’s breath away, just to stand there and listen to the waves and watch the horizon. The waves built and crashed below them, escaping onto the sand before being pulled back out, a part of something bigger that came and went as sure as the sun and moon.

Arthur turned to watch him and when Merlin looked at him, smiled with a shyness that was all this century, a shyness that had been almost gone when Merlin had arrived in Camelot, only showing through in flashes in those days before the end. Merlin squeezed his hand and Arthur squeezed back.

* * *

They walked for a few hours, stopping to rest when the bags got too heavy. Arthur had decided that the best use of their time was for him to ask Merlin about everything – both the things he had missed while he was alive and all that happened after he died, to Camelot and to everyone they had known there.

“Who ruled after Gwen?”

“She adopted an orphan. A fine king. Named one of his own children Arthur. The ugliest one, of course.”

“Gaius?”

“Died a year or two after you,” Merlin said, grin fading then brightening somewhat as he remembered that this Gaius was still alive and waiting for him.

Arthur paused in his interrogation for a while, and they walked in companionable silence before he landed on the topic Merlin had been hoping against hope might just never come up.

“And you?”

“I stayed until Gwen was gone. Old age, very happy, thought of you until her last day,” he added. “After that, there was nothing from before left for me, so I left. Trained up a few new young sorcerers and left,” he amended.

“Where?” Arthur said as though he had been holding onto the question all day.

Merlin sighed. “That’s… a much longer conversation,” he said gently.

To his relief, Arthur accepted it after only a brief scrutinising look. “Not such a sheltered peasant anymore, then?”

“Not so much,” Merlin said. “God, this version of you is such a snob, too. Some things are built in, I suppose,” he said with a sigh, watching Arthur out of the corner of his eye and fighting a smile.

Arthur just laughed and shoved him until he almost fell over. Reflexively, Merlin tripped him with his magic. Once he had righted himself with a glare, Arthur stopped dead. Merlin raised an eyebrow.

“Hang on,” Arthur said slowly. Too late, Merlin realised where this was going and grinned sheepishly. “You did that to me last week! I didn’t trip on my own! You bastard,” he said wonderingly.

“In both lives,” Merlin agreed easily, and Arthur rolled his eyes. Merlin frowned. “I wonder if Balinor was my father this time. Maybe he’s out there somewhere. I could look for him.”

“Maybe,” Arthur said, and guilt flashed across his face. “Did I ever tell you I was sorry about that?”

“No,” Merlin said evenly. “But it’s fine. You didn’t know. I forgive you,” he said simply.

As they walked, the path got rougher for a while and they ended up walking on the grass. It was warmer, now, than the chill they had stepped out of Pendragon House to that morning. Merlin suddenly remembered something and winced.

“Not to put a dampener on your romantic moment earlier,” he started, and Arthur gave him a wary look. “And in all fairness, you were dying at the time,” he continued, voice admirably even, the word only sticking in his throat a little with Arthur beside him.

“What?”

“You did sort of already tell me you loved me before you went.”

Arthur looked irritated and he stopped. “I don’t – I can’t quite –”

“I think dying is a reasonable excuse for a little memory loss.”

“What did you say, then?”

“I said it back, obviously, I do have a heart, you know,” Merlin said. “Not that I only said it because you were dying!” he added hastily as Arthur gave him a look. “Just. You know. I did. I do.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “What did you say exactly?”

Merlin was immediately suspicious, but cautiously decided Arthur looked like he had _almost_ remembered something rather than like he was just needling him. He looked away, oddly embarrassed.

“I said I loved you first, alright?”

Arthur smiled, small and pleased, and bumped his shoulder easily. “And you say I’m a sap.”

“I’m not the one reciting poetry in bed,” Merlin shot back. “Poetry, Arthur. Could you even read, in Camelot?”

Arthur was still grinning. “To hell with you,” he said cheerfully, and Merlin just laughed and it felt so dizzyingly right, to fall so effortlessly back into their familiar rhythm.

* * *

They followed the path until the sun set, the sound of gulls and the sea interrupted by short bursts of conversation and laughter and arguing. However inconvenient it made carrying their belongings, their hands were rarely apart.

They stopped for the night at an inn which seemed to be close to Gwen’s father’s house the next day. It was a modest affair, a crooked two-storey structure with an alehouse below and rooms above.

The alehouse was a big room, a huge open fire along one side already crackling away. A handful of old men sat around it like they had grown out of the floorboards reading newspapers, a few puffing on pipes and adding to the general miasma of the room. A larger, younger group occupied the main communal table, and Arthur and Merlin’s was one of an odd collection of wonky individual ones, tucked into a corner. The lines of it were uneven and there was more than one set of initials scratched into the surface, but they slid in behind it gratefully.

A decent stew was followed by two somewhat less-than-decent ales and they drank quietly, legs pressed together under the table.

“God, food is better now,” Arthur said.

“Spices,” Merlin agreed.

Arthur had slowed down slightly, but he still wasn’t finished with his questions and continued to fire them off throughout the meal, burning with curiosity about what felt like everyone they’d ever met. Merlin was growing slightly tired of this game, but he supposed not many people got a chance to hear what happened after they died, and so he answered patiently, secretly still grateful Arthur hadn’t got to asking about his life in between. Yet.

They paid for a room for the night and were directed up a cramped staircase to a dingy little room with two small beds. They dropped their bags where they stood and both snorted as they looked at the setup, knowing without asking that only one was going to be used.

Arthur turned to Merlin, who put his hands on Arthur’s hips and pulled him close, finally away from prying eyes. Merlin’s eyes flickered over Arthur’s shoulder and gold flashed for a moment as a handful of candles lit and the curtain swept closed. When he looked back Arthur was unabashedly watching his eyes as the gold faded.

Arthur cupped his cheek, running a thumb over the new stubble. Merlin leaned into the touch and moved to kiss him.

“I – I never saw you like this,” Arthur said, interrupting his trajectory.

“Like what?”

“With the –” He touched the stubble again. Merlin had almost forgotten it.

“Oh. I suppose. I can always,” – he waved a hand at his face to indicate magic – “It off, if you like.”

But Arthur caught his hand in the air and looked into his eyes. “No,” he said quietly, and Merlin frowned, then grinned.

“Understood.”

He leaned in for a kiss, but Arthur put a hand on his chest again. Dismayed, he noted that Arthur had the look on his face he had been getting all day when he thought of another question, and mentally groaned.

“Did you – even then?” Arthur said uncertainly.

“Words, Arthur. Did I what?”

“Want me – like this?”

Merlin marvelled at how he could be so dense, sometimes.

“Always,” he said promptly, without a trace of embarrassment. He might have spent centuries squashing down his feelings, but the same could not be said for everything. Any remaining prudishness had worn off fairly quickly. “We just didn’t end up with a lot of time, by the time we figured it out, what with the battle and all,” he said with a wry smile. “But I always wanted you.”

Arthur looked pleased, and Merlin rolled his eyes and took matters into his own hands, pressing his lips to Arthur’s at last. They kissed, slow and easy at first, deepening and heating by degrees as they went.

Arthur pulled away and took him by the hand, walking backwards to the furthest bed. Merlin let himself be led and straddled Arthur when he sat on the end, dipping down for another kiss, which turned into dozens.

“God, I missed you.”

“I’m here.”

Their kisses grew increasingly urgent, and Arthur slipped his hands under Merlin’s shirt to slide up his back. They paused, leaning their foreheads against each other.

“Can I –” Merlin started.

“God yes,” Arthur said instantly. “Do you want me to –”

“We can –”

Arthur put a finger to Merlin’s lips, amused. “We have time,” he said softly.

Merlin exhaled and nodded, needing the reminder that this wasn’t slipping through his fingers like sand. Arthur was warm and solid and real beneath him, and he held on.

“We don’t have any –” Arthur started, sounding disappointed.

Merlin grinned, suddenly, and Arthur looked at him, confused. Merlin reached behind Arthur’s ear and produced a jar of oil from thin air. He cackled as Arthur flopped back on the bed and covered his face with a groan.

“God help me, I’m bedding a court jester,” he said to the ceiling, but he kicked off his shoes and shifted to lie on the bed properly.

“Not yet, you’re not,” Merlin said cheerfully and Arthur glared at him from where he lay.

“You had magic in this life too,” he said suddenly.

“Yes. Not much.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Merlin looked at him like he was being slow. “Arthur. It took me years, and you dying, to tell you before, in a world where everyone believed in magic. Would this you have believed me?” He raised his eyebrows and Arthur let his head fall back.

“Well. Anyway.”

“Yes, anyway,” Merlin said, amused, removing his own shoes to climb on top of Arthur before he was stopped yet again. He made a frustrated noise and threw himself down beside him.

“In the name of the Goddess, what now?”

“You still haven’t told me how you came back this time,” Arthur said suspiciously.

“Tomorrow,” Merlin pleaded. “You were the one who said we have time,” he reminded him before deciding if he waited for Arthur to run out of questions he’d be there another millennium, and turning to suck a mark into his neck. It was low enough that his shirt would cover it tomorrow. Probably. Or he could cover it up with magic. Probably. He found he didn’t care much, as Arthur sucked in a sharp breath.

“Oh, you – ah – where did you learn that?” Arthur said, a little breathily, and Merlin grinned and pulled off to kiss his way up his neck.

“Oh, I know all sorts now,” he whispered, and Arthur started to roll his eyes but was immensely distracted by Merlin nipping at his earlobe.

Merlin reached down to cup him through his trousers and looked up innocently as Arthur cursed, pupils wide. He grinned and leaned in for a filthy kiss.

“You can’t – you can’t distract me from this,” Arthur said breathlessly, trying and failing miserably to look at him sternly. Merlin raised his eyebrows. He reached inside Arthur’s trousers and moved his hand a few inches, and well, it turned out that he could, actually.

* * *

They fell asleep crammed into the single bed, their limbs tangled and Arthur’s head on Merlin’s chest.

* * *

* * *

In the morning, as the small room fills with light, they will wake together, really together, for the third time and the first time, and it will be a new day.

They will leave the inn and go to find Gwen’s father who, once convinced of their intentions, will relent and give them an address in London. Tom Smith is a good man in both lives, and Merlin will be glad to see him again.

They will hatch a plan to get across the counties, and they will walk and ride and take coaches for days until they reach Glastonbury, where Merlin will go very still at the sight of the hill and the tower rising from the mist.

He will explain to Arthur where they are, and eventually, haltingly, what he did there, that night.

Arthur, for his part, will be scarily calm, before getting so upset that he will walk away. Then, he will return to embrace Merlin so tightly his ribs creak, muttering furiously about destiny and goddesses and damned stupidity the whole time.

Merlin will make a poorly-timed joke about his own demise and it will always, always be too soon for Arthur. They will watch the sun rise over the tower without going up, this time, and they will walk away to the north, a little fragile but a little lighter.

As they walk, Merlin will finally start to tell Arthur about his long life, about the places he’s seen and the people he has loved. The bad years - the pain and the loss and the loneliness - can wait, for now. They have time.

They will reach Bristol and Gaius, and they will help him remember. He will embrace Merlin, crying, and Arthur will cry too, though he will not admit it.

After a little research, it will become apparent that past-Merlin had left some money in various places that has been untouched in his absence. With all his jobs and patrons, it will turn out to be more than enough to buy their way to London on the turnpike road and stay there a while.

In the carriages, they will sit close together and watch Albion go by, somehow bigger and smaller, faster and slower than it had been for them, back then.

They will argue about opening the window, closing the blind, putting feet on each other’s lap, which inns to stay at and what to eat, who should get out first and holding the door for each other or shutting it in the other’s face.

London will be a surprise to both of them, the sheer size and bustle and grime of it, and they will hesitate for the barest second before plunging in.

They will find Gwen and Morgana, who will hug them tight. Merlin will introduce himself to and apologise to Morgana in the same afternoon as he reaches for her with his magic and watches her eyes flash gold as she gasps. Gwen will reach for his face with the same tenderness her older, wiser self had said goodbye to him, and they will weep, then, the ones who had held each other up for years when everyone else was gone.

They will find a new rhythm, a new dynamic, this odd group of four people and eight at once – more, for how many lives Merlin has lived. Some days they will be quiet and distant as they struggle to separate the selves that they contain, and some days they will laugh so hard they can hardly breathe and make plans to find the others that might be out there.

At the end of every day, Arthur’s hand will be in Merlin’s as they lie beside each other. Arthur will lean over to kiss him awake, and they will fit as though they were destined for this. And for the first time since he stood weeping on the shores of Avalon, Merlin will not feel as though part of him is missing. He is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes etc first:  
> \- “I’d never cheat you and say “It’s inevitable” / It’s just barely natural. / But we do course together / like two battleships maneuvering away from the fleet. / I am moved by the multitudes of your intelligence / and sometimes, returning, I become the sea— / in love with your speed, your heaviness and breath.” (Frank O’Hara, ['Ode'](https://ilcavallo.tumblr.com/post/51805981749/ode-by-frank-ohara))  
> \- “No one has ever stared more tenderly or more fixedly after you… I kiss you—across hundreds of separating years.” (Marina Tsvetaeva, ['No One Has Taken Anything Away'](https://blogs.warwick.ac.uk/zoebrigley/entry/poem_by_marina/))  
> \- “You are a full, unbroken circle, a whirlwind or wholly turned to stone. I do not remember you apart from love. There is an equals sign.” (Marina Tsvetaeva, from the epilogue of ['Poem of the Mountain'](https://ruverses.com/marina-tsvetaeva/poem-of-the-mountain/))  
> \- “When you are away, you are nevertheless present for me. (…) It is as if your person becomes a place, your contours horizons. I live in you then like living in a country. You are everywhere. Yet in that country I can never meet you face to face. (…) In the country which is you I know your gestures, the intonations of your voice, the shape of every part of your body. You are not physically less real there, but you are less free. What changes when you are there before my eyes is that you become unpredictable. What you are about to do is unknown to me. I follow you. You act. And with what you do, I fall in love again.” (John Berger, _And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos_ )  
> \- [This art](https://billypotts.tumblr.com/post/186393467463/this-this-is-it)  
> \- [And this one](https://robotomojo.tumblr.com/post/612596053160656896)  
> \- ['The Promise'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=p-nqzwIvnZ0&ab_channel=TracyChapman-Topic) by Tracy Chapman  
> \- "And you shall take me strongly in your arms again, and I will not remember that I even felt the pain. We shall walk and talk in gardens all misty and wet with rain, and I will never, never, never grow so old again." ‘Sweet Thing’ - the original by [Van Morrison](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JFAp3aRJ2vA&ab_channel=VanMorrison-Topic) and a bonus sexy cover by [Hozier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HAbs_PYfpvQ&ab_channel=NakedNoise)
> 
> Anyway, a huge thank you to anyone who read this! I started this within about a month of writing my first ever fic, it remains (by far) the longest thing I’ve ever written and it’s a really big deal to me to have written it. I’m proud of it, even if there are more original things than film fusions lmao. Thank you so much to everyone who read and commented, it means a lot <3
> 
> i'm also on [tumblr](https://idlestories.tumblr.com/) under the same handle, so feel free to follow me there


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